


The Atonement of Cullen Rutherford

by bioticbootyshaker, Defira



Series: The Unexpected Involvement of Love [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4066171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition marches onwards, and so too does the burgeoning relationship between the Commander of the Inquisition and a member of the Inquisitor's Inner Circle. Templar and mage, Tevinter and Andrastian- in theory, Cullen and Dorian should have nothing but contempt for one another, nothing to even lay the foundations for civility, let alone love. </p>
<p>But Cullen has walked a dark and painful road prior to his current role, and there are aspects of his past that he is reluctant to share with Dorian. With Adamant Fortress looming on the horizon, he may not have a choice in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

Oh, he knew he’d inevitably slipped into unconsciousness any number of times now, waking up dazed and panicked and hysterical hours later when the screaming started again, sibilant whispers crawling over his bloodied, sweat soaked skin. It was impossible, after all, to remain vigilant without rest for days on end-

-was it still days? Had it become weeks? Did time even matter any more, in this hellscape? 

Cullen lay shivering on the floor, the stone clammy beneath his cheek; it was a rare moment of quiet, the chamber above him relatively silent for the first time in what felt like forever. There were distant screams and echoing roars, and the muffled thud of far off explosions, but for the moment, he was alone.

His head was aching ferociously, and the room swam in front of his eyes when he tried to sit; his mouth was so dry it felt like sandpaper trying to swallow, and despite how warm he was he noticed he wasn't sweating any more. His fingers were stiff, though, and his hands cramped when he tried to flex them to recover. He cursed hoarsely under his breath, bent over with his hands tucked tight against his stomach, and he froze when he heard movement beyond the sphere of violent light he crouched in. 

The scrape of something- _claws? scales?_ \- over stone came again, and a rustling sound, somewhat like the sound of clothing settling into place and somewhat like the sound of wings being tucked against a back and out of the way. Both. Either. He cringed backwards, trying to peer out into the darkness beyond his prison, but his eyes ached from being locked inside the glowing pillar without reprieve for so long. 

He felt the panic bubbling up in him again, the hysteria, so he ducked his head and forced himself not to look as he began to pray. “The one who repents, who has faith,” he rasped, his shaky voice almost unrecognizable after days without water, “unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace. Many are-”

“Cullen?”

At the familiar voice his head snapped up, trailing off on a whimper as he spotted Dart kneeling on the other side of the barrier. His armor was dented and bloodied, and one of his pauldrons had been torn clean away, a horrifyingly deep gash running over his bared shoulder. The wounded arm was hanging limply at his side, and there was a dazed enough expression on his blood-streaked face that Cullen could only shudder to think how much blood he’d lost. 

He tried to scramble to his feet, but didn’t quite have the strength to make it upright, and instead crawled the few short feet towards the barrier to kneel before his friend. They’d taken their vows at the same time, and had come up through their training together; Dart was a few years older, always quick with a laugh, and to see him like this...

If he’d still been capable of tears at that point, he would have started crying. “I didn’t think anyone was still left,” he said hoarsely, his armor feeling like a huge, dragging weight on him. It’d be so much easier to just give up and lie down, or to take it off. “It’s been so long.”

Dart shook his head slowly, absently, as if he wasn’t all that focused. “No one’s left,” he said, his voice little more than a hollow rattle through his chest. There was blood on his lips. “No one. No one’s coming.”

Cullen felt a fresh shiver of terror run down his spine, and he shook his head violently. “No, no they have to,” he said, dismayed. “They have to annul the tower, and they’ll free me- _us_ \- when they do.”

Dart was still shaking his head. “There’s no one,” he whispered. “We’re all that’s left. No one’s coming, Cullen. We’re alone.”

“No-”

“We should kill ourselves, so the demons can’t get us,” Dart said, his voice a little sharper. “There’s no point going on any more, is there? And it’s better, better like this, then we won’t be abominations, they won’t get under our skins and in our flesh and in our brains. Death is the only choice. We need to give up.”

Cullen felt a shrinking suspicion take root in his belly. “No, we shouldn’t. We should stay here, barricade the doors-”

“ _That’s fucking easy for you to say!_ ” Dart’s voice was tinged with the same sort of hysterical fear that Cullen had been feeling for days now, and Cullen shrank backwards at the wild violence in him. “Locked away safe in your precious little bubble, you haven’t had to see the things I’ve seen! The bodies bursting open, turning inside out with cracking bone and oozing pus-”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Cullen screamed at him, his empty stomach contracting with a spasm of horror at the memory alone.

“Did you even fight at _all_ , or have you been sitting here all cozy and safe for the past few weeks?”

“You say that like I had a choice about being in here!”

“The children died so easily, skin tearing like wet paper-”

If Cullen could have clawed at his ears until the words ceased, he would have- he would have done so days ago, really. It didn’t stop him from trying, his broken fingernails leaving streaks of blood down the side of his temples, his hair matted with sticky, drying globs. “ _Shut up!_ ” 

“Dying would be so easy-”

“Go away! I’m not listening!”

“You’re _nothing_ but a fucking coward and a _worm_ ,” the creature masquerading as Dart hissed, staggering to his feet; his bloodied, useless arm swung back and forth in a rather macabre fashion. He wondered how far into his head they were, that they’d resort to using his face to break him. He wondered how many others were going to come after, staggering through the door and pleading for him with false lips. “You let others die in your place, you fucking _monster_.”

Cullen scrambled away from the barrier, heart pounding frantically and painfully as he huddled in the centre of the shield. “Leave me _alone_ , demon!” he screamed, burying his head against his shaking knees, gagging and choking on the fear as his stomach heaved again.

“You’re going to die, you know, why fight it?” The voice no longer belonged to his friend- presumably Dart, the real Dart, was long dead, just like the rest of them; now the voice was softer, colder. If he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed the way his breath fogged the air in front of him. “You’re going to die, all alone and forgotten, having sat alone in the darkness and listened to the screams of every last living thing in this tower but you as we slowly tear them to shreds.”

“Many are those who wander in sin,” Cullen shouted as loudly as he could, his voice shaking with panic; the Chant was easy, the Chant was life, the Maker would come back if he screamed the words, if he truly meant them. “Despairing that they are lost forever-”

“Do you feel despair, little templar? Let me taste it.”

“Leave me!” He hugged his arms tight around his knees, eyes clenched shut. “ _Leave me!_ ”

Cullen came awake with a lurch, the hysterical fear still clawing at his throat as the room spun wildly around him; the sweat on his skin was icy cold, his pulse pounded so ferociously that it _hurt_ , and his stomach roiled about so violently that for a moment he thought he was about to be ill. He threw off the blankets in a panic and swung his legs over the side of the bed, covering his face with his hands as he trembled and waited for the seething adrenalin in his veins to calm down. 

For a moment he was alone with his hysteria, chest heaving and cheeks wet with tears as he silently begged the room to stop spinning and his stomach to offer him similar courtesies, the breath hissing from between clenched teeth as he fought the urge to vomit up the bile surging in his gut. For a moment, that was his only company, and a decade of accepting it and convincing himself that it was safe to sleep when the lie made him hate himself.

But then the bed shifted behind him, accompanied by the confused noises of someone torn from sleep without warning, and the rustle of blankets. His first instinct was panic- the demons had followed him from his dreams- but then he felt the confusion at his back crystallize into alertness, and a soft “Cullen?” from a voice that no demon would ever have been able to replicate, because it wouldn’t be _him_.

 _Dorian_. His heart latched onto the name, the memory, and he inched away from the panic. 

Gently, so as not to startle him- they both had enough experience with the procedure now, after months of sharing a bed-, Dorian brushed his fingers up Cullen’s spine, a slow and deliberate moment of contact, familiarising him with his presence and his touch. The first hand was joined by a second, both sliding over the sweat dampened skin of his shoulders, massaging his trembling muscles gently as he moved closer to him. Easing up behind him, knees sliding either side of his hips to draw him right up against his chest, Dorian wrapped his arms loosely around Cullen’s shoulders, touching his lips to his ear.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, his voice soft and calm. “I’m here, amatus. It’s alright now.”

Cullen shuddered and leaned back into him, dropping his face down to press against the arms that wrapped around him. He was shivering violently, the adrenalin bleeding out of him and leaving him weak as a day old babe; his stomach still seethed as if he’d just taken a voyage on a storm tossed sea, but the heat of Dorian at his back was an anchor to cling to, something real and true in the depths of his panic. 

With one shaking hand he reached up and covered Dorian’s wrist where he held him, ashamed of himself for the tears that slicked his lover's skin but too desperately afflicted by the pain of the nightmare to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, when he could speak at all, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He felt him shift slightly, Dorian’s chin dropping down onto his shoulder, as if he was trying to completely envelope him in his arms. His lips were warm and soft and undemanding as he placed small, quick kisses to Cullen’s ear and temple and cheek.

“Now why would you be sorry?” Dorian asked. “Have you done something naughty that you haven’t told me about?” His voice was teasing, an attempt to lure him gently back towards normalcy, but Cullen felt rather than heard his sigh when he realised just how miserable he actually was, his breath a warmth against his neck as he tried to shrug off the nightmare that still gripped him with slowly fading tendrils.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dorian asked, finally, when the silence between them stretched on uncomfortably. Cullen hadn’t told him much of anything about the terrors that plagued him at night, and it was a conversation he managed to deflect each time Dorian carefully queried his past.

But...

“You can trust me,” Dorian said, quietly, against Cullen’s shoulder.

How could he even begin to explain what had happened, what sort of man had crawled free of the wreckage? He couldn’t even forgive _himself_ for the years of paranoid hate and self loathing, how could he ever expect Dorian- who, as remarkable as he was, was still a mage- to look at him and see a man worthy of redemption?

“I don’t-” He felt fresh tears prick at his eyes and he tried to bury his face against Dorian’s arm. “-know,” he finished finally, hesitantly, not what he’d originally intended to say. 

Because he’d never talked about it, beyond the cursory, impersonal interviews he’d had with Greagoir in the immediate aftermath of the disaster, or the vague and clinical way that Meredith had queried it when she’d made the choice to make him her captain. He’d never told anyone about the horror of those few days, about the things he’d seen, the temptation and the despair... how close he’d come to embracing death just to be free of the terror and the taunting and the screaming. 

He felt weak, empty, like the fight had bled out of him and left him hollow and fragile, just a shell of a human being. “I don’t know,” he said again, his voice hoarse, all but slumping back against him in exhaustion.

Dorian was silent for several agonizing heartbeats, and Cullen didn’t know whether his words had struck at a raw nerve. It was no small feat, he knew, asking a mage to look past his history, to accept the brutality he’d been party to... that Dorian treated him like he was worthy of respect and forgiveness was a miracle he was desperate to hold onto for as long as possible.

But he knew he couldn’t hide forever.

“Come here,” Dorian whispered instead, firm without being demanding. He tugged Cullen back into bed, and Cullen let himself be led; the roof had yet to be repaired, but Dorian had certainly stamped his presence on the room in a thousand other little ways. When Dorian eased him back against the pillows, it was not the thin and spartan cushion that had served him well enough during all his years as a soldier, but a mountain of plump, feather stuffed silk monstrosities that seemed determined to eat him most nights- he’d lost at least one sock in there, and he wasn’t game enough to dive in after it. They were, however, remarkably comfortable, and Dorian had relented after much grumbling and allowed him to keep his worn old pillow as long as it was safely enclosed within a silken cover that matched the rest of the linens. He coaxed him to lie flat, not imposing upon him or insisting on closeness, lying quietly beside him with his fingers threaded tightly through his. 

He held him, not tight enough to cause him any more anxiety, but tight enough that Cullen knew he was there, that he wasn’t lost in whatever memory haunted him so terribly. And he waited, waited to see where Cullen’s mood would take him this time, eternally patient with him, and he felt a hot rush of shame that he would so frequently require such patience.

Cullen turned, rolling into him so that he could hide his face against the warmth of Dorian’s chest; he was shivering now, exhausted and emotionally drained. He hadn’t had a nightmare that bad in months, certainly not one so clear. Dorian’s arms went around him, one hair sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, cradling him against his chest, and Cullen pressed his eyes tight shut, hiding from the world and the memories in the arms of his lover. 

Beneath his cheek, he could feel Dorian’s heart beat, a calming rhythm that slowly lulled him back from the brink of panic. His fingers rubbed gently at his scalp, a soothing massage that relaxed him, and in a short matter of time he felt his own breathing calm in response, his pulse slowing down to normal. 

_Safe_. He was safe with Dorian. 

He swallowed, the tears still damp on his cheeks. 

“I’ve told you I nearly died at Kinloch Hold,” he rasped, the words so full of self loathing that he cringed against Dorian’s chest. “I... I didn’t tell you how.”

Dorian’s fingers froze, for just a moment, in their reassuring stroke over Cullen’s shoulder. The hesitation was palpable, like cold daggers pricking at Cullen’s skin. It was so strange, how deeply he could hang on someone else’s opinion of him. Not that empathy was a new experience for him, but he had never felt so vulnerable, waiting on someone’s reaction to his trembling voice and shivering skin and shaking breath.

Dorian pressed his lips to Cullen’s forehead, where his skin was warm and a little damp with sweat.

“You don’t have to do this, Cullen,” he murmured. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Cullen wilted, the rejection blooming against his heart like a bruise; hearing Dorian’s reluctance to hear of the man he’d been before made a swell of shame rise up to choke him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment, his mood teetering between violent self loathing and skin-crawling humiliation. “I’ve never tried to do this before.”

“No, Cullen...” Dorian held him a little tighter, his kisses growing firmer with his touch, moving from his forehead to his damp curls. “Don’t apologize. I only wanted you to know that you can share with me anything you like... or keep whatever you like from me. You don’t owe me anything more than you wish to give.”

He felt fingers beneath his chin, and he whimpered despite himself as he found the faint glimmer of Dorian’s eyes in the dark. “You want to tell me?” Dorian asked gently, his tone careful.

Cullen nodded furiously, pressing his face up against his throat and squeezing his eyes tight shut, a surge of emotions taking hold of him by the throat. He breathed heavily through his nose for a half minute, hands clenched as he fought to claw back from the edge, swallowing down each bubble of emotion in his mouth that threatened to turn into tears. 

Dorian waited, silent and safe, one hand running up and down his back with slow, lazy strokes. He could quite easily have fallen asleep like that, safe and silent in his arms, but...

He’d held this poison in for far too long. 

“It was after Ostagar,” he said finally, his voice shaking, “and the survivors came back in two groups. The first group insisted that Teyrn Loghain had promised them greater freedoms if they supported him against the darkspawn, and tried to convince the rest of the tower to join them. The second group considered Loghain responsible for the loss, and objected.”

He hesitated, remembering. “The first group didn’t want to lose the promise of freedom, however limited, and they turned on the rest. I was...” He gritted his teeth. “I was on guard duty outside the chamber, with several of my fellows. We... there was not enough of us. We did not anticipate what would happen, or how quickly.”

As Cullen spoke, Dorian’s fingers grew tighter, until they were clenched in his hair; the hand on his back no longer soothed him with gentle caresses, but lay flat against his lower back, pressing him firmly against him. He didn’t know what such a reaction meant, whether the seething emotion he could feel building in him was directed at him or not. 

He thought by now he’d be hot, his body overworked with the panic and the nightmare and the tears. But he was still stone cold, clammy and unpleasant where he hugged against Dorian’s gentle warmth.

“How old were you?” Dorian asked softly.

Cullen hesitated before forcing the answer out. “Nineteen,” he said finally. 

Dorian’s soft intake of breath, not quite a gasp but something that conveyed dismay and horror, made him cringe in expectation of the mocking laughter that never came. Instead he felt lips pressed tight against his forehead. 

“I still don’t really know what happened,” he continued, the words falling from his mouth faster now, “I don’t know whether they meant to call so many demons, or-or whether they lost control, maybe they were truly mad men all along or maybe they decided that... that what happened, the way they died, maybe that was better than continuing to live in the tower.”

He shivered again, and he noticed a moment later that he couldn’t stop shaking. “I was- I fought, I tried to fight them. The blood mages, I mean, and then it was demons, and then-” He took a shuddering breath, suddenly light-headed as he buried his face against Dorian’s chest. “Someone, a demon maybe, or maybe Uldred, I don’t know, I never found out, someone put me in a cage. Of light, I think, or- or magic. I don’t... I don’t know why, why me, why the cage, what it- I don’t even know how long I was in there for.”

His words were stilted, shuddering things, difficult to get past his lips, awkward and fat with emotion. “I saw- _everything_. And they- the demons- they made me, they made me _watch_ things and when I shut my eyes they were there in my head, they put _things_ in my head, I couldn’t sleep, I was... I saw them kill the _children_ and I couldn’t do _anything_.”

He was crying, wheezing for breath, trying to draw air into his lungs even though each mouthful seemed less nourishing than the last. 

“Amatus.” Dorian’s fingers were beneath his chin again, turning his face up towards his; there was such grief in his face, his expression raw in a way that took Cullen by surprise. “Breathe, breathe with me Cullen, it’s alright, you’re safe.” He was kissing his face, his lips brushing over his skin as he whispered endearments to him, his hand coming to rest in the middle of his heaving chest. “Shh, it’s alright now, I promise. Come now- breathe with me, you can do it. In and out, in and out.”

“I can’t-”

“You can,” Dorian said firmly, his voice soft. “In and out, see, we’re breathing together, not hard at all! Anyone would think you were a natural at this.”

The joke startled a weak chuckle from him, distracting him for a moment from the hiccuping sobs, and Dorian’s gentle smile took the edge off the worst of the panic. 

“I’m so sorry,” he stammered.

“My amatus, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Dorian murmured, his fingers delicately brushing aside the sweaty curls that clung to his forehead. “I only want you to be safe.”

_Safe._

Cullen’s face collapsed as the tears took him again, and he clung to Dorian so ferociously that his fingers hurt, sobbing as he tried to suck in enough air to breathe. Every moment of fear and panic and shame that had burned into him all those years ago felt fresh again, hot and thin in his veins like acid. 

“I-” He tried to choke out the words, and instead found his tongue too big for his mouth; he swallowed thickly as his shoulders heaved with each sob, trying to force his way forward. “I- couldn’t-"

He could feel Dorian’s lips on his forehead, on his cheeks, and he could feel the warmth of his breath on his skin; he forced open his eyes with difficulty, his head throbbing already from a headache that would probably waylay him for the rest of the day. “I became- a _monster_.”

Dorian took hold of his face, not allowing Cullen the luxury of looking away from him. His thumbs wiped away his tears as best they could, but when Cullen blinked, new tears spilled.

“You were _never_ a monster,” Dorian whispered, vehemently. He tipped his head forward to touch their brows together. “ _Never_.”

Cullen whimpered, hiccuping on the tears. “I did- _terrible_ things, in Kirkwall,” he stuttered, trying and failing to speak with any semblance of control. “I- I was _angry_ , and I was _frightened_ , and I- I had so much _hate_...” He tried to adjust his grip on Dorian, tried to wrap himself around him. “I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to _remember_...”

It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing he could forget, though. 

And Maker, what must Dorian think of him? His familiarity with Templars and their methods wasn’t extensive, given how little purpose the order in Tevinter served other than as window dressing, but he had seen what they were capable of in the months that he had lived in the south, had heard stories of what they could do, what they justified with their faith and their vows.

The way he looked at him sometimes, it was if the idea of such behaviour from Cullen was merely an abstract, a theory, not an actual period in his life when he had sunk as low as humanly possible. Cullen wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him, to beg him to open his eyes and see exactly what he was and what he’d done...

He was and always would be marked by his years as a templar, and Dorian could no more change the fact that he was a mage than he could dance on the moon. How long until Dorian no longer looked at him with trust and desire, and instead turned to him with suspicion and fear? It was inevitable, surely; he was a monster, a man dragged to the lowest pits humanity was capable of and left to wallow and fester alone in the depths. 

But Dorian looked at him like he was good, and decent, and honorable, like he was more than the sum of his past actions. He looked at him like he was _worth_ something.

Maker help him, he wanted to be worth something. There was so much he needed to do to make the world right, so much he needed to atone for, but all that mattered was that he was hurting and clinging to him and he needed someone to take care of him and Dorian didn’t shy away from that.

All that mattered was that Dorian loved him, that he loved him as he had been and was and would be.

The reminder to breathe was a quiet mantra against his ear, urging him gently to follow his lead and breathe with him; their legs lay tangled above the sheets, Dorian warm and soft against the clammy cold of his own flesh. One hand ran softly up and down his back in time to Dorian’s breathing, trying to imbue the same slow rhythm in Cullen, and the other smoothed damp hair away from his forehead. When they made eye contact again in the darkness, the grief and the concern and the sorrowful longing in his gaze swept the ground out from under him, a shuddering gasp whispering past his lips.

He was a monster, a murderer- what could Dorian possibly see in him to negate that?

Dorian’s thumb brushed over his cheek, wiping away a tear as he smiled sadly at him. “I see _you_ ,” he said; at Cullen’s stunned expression, he laughed softly. “I’m not in your head, amatus- you said it out loud.”

Cullen kissed him, clearly taking him by surprise if the sound he made was any indication; he moved to pull away, an apology coming to his lips, but then Dorian’s hand moved to cup his cheek and angle his face up towards his more comfortably. He kissed him, soft, gentle, easing into the small affection at first; and then deeper, with more need, as if desperately trying to show him how he was loved and desired and needed. How he was safe and sound here with him.

So he clung to him, the only sign of life and warmth in the abysmal aftermath of the nightmare, the only person in years who had made him feel alive and _awake_. He dug his fingers into his hair, nails running sharply over his scalp and then grasping tight to his shoulders; he pressed into his kisses, because this was living and this was warmth and this was not the Fade and not a nightmare and Dorian was real and safe and true and _safe_...

He whimpered against his mouth as his body still trembled from the tears, trying to kiss him until he forgot again, until the pain of the nightmares faded away in the face of Dorian’s warmth as he lay half across him. 

Cullen wanted to wrap himself around him and never let go, sink into him and lose himself in him completely.

When he broke away from the kiss, Dorian gave him the space to speak, but he nuzzled gently at his forehead, his lips dancing over his skin before he pressed his forehead to his. “I don’t want to remember it,” Cullen rasped, carding his fingers through Dorian’s hair. “I know I... I know that’s not possible. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember and I don’t want to be that man anymore.”

“Who do you want to be, then?” He gently eased Cullen’s hand from where it was clinging to his shoulder and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a kiss against his palm. 

The question took him by surprise, and he hesitated. “I... I don’t know.”

“Because I have to say,” Dorian said, kissing each finger, gently, slowly, watching Cullen as he did, “I’m rather fond of the man I already have.”

His gaze was intense, so intense that it sent shivers up Cullen’s spine. 

“Time changes everything, especially hearts and minds,” he continued, kissing each fingertip with great tenderness, his mouth drifting down to linger over the fluttering pulse in his wrist. “You seem determined to remember only the pain these fingers have cause, the terrible things you insist they have done when you were weak and angry and gripped by raw memories.”

Cullen cringed at the memories that wanted to come crowding back to the forefront.

“But,” Dorian said, drawing him back to the present, “they have been nothing but good and gentle to me. I have seen them reach to aid fallen soldiers, I have seen them rush to intervene in moments of violence, to prevent an escalation-”

“Dorian,” he said miserably, unconvinced.

“I have seen them work tirelessly to build a better world, both physically and metaphorically,” Dorian said, and then chuckled to himself. “Is it too early or too late to be using words like metaphorically? Normally I’ve had far more to drink when I’m waxing philosophical at this hour of the night.” 

He sighed softly, kissing Cullen’s wrist again and encouraging him to press his palm against his cheek so that he was cradling Dorian’s face in his hand. “Your hands can’t undo the scars they have already inflicted,” he said, his expression more serious, “but you _can_ and _have_ made it so that people will no longer suffer in the future. Your hands have laid the foundations for a better world, amatus.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I set the foundations over the blood of those I hurt.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Dorian said in agreement. “But is there a point where you allow yourself to acknowledge the good you’ve done and are doing, and admit to yourself that you’re no longer trapped in that cage with no one coming to save you?”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer; he may have actually gasped aloud, he wasn’t sure. Dorian just watched him, his eyes soft and his touch softer.

“I... I don’t-”

“Don’t, then,” Dorian said softly. “You don’t have to be or do anything with me, amatus. Just be alive here with me, now."

Cullen turned his face into the pillow momentarily, rubbing his cheeks on the soft covers to try and clear the worst of the tears from his skin. Everything from the neck up ached ferociously, and even his skin felt too sensitive from where his face had been scrunched up as he fought with the worst of his emotions. He knew, from all the times he’d woken alone after this sort of ordeal, that his eyes would be bloodshot and his nose would be red and dripping, and his cheeks would be flushed and sticky and extraordinarily ugly and puffy. 

He’d belittled himself plenty of times for it, in the past. Especially his first few years in Kirkwall, when his self loathing had manifested outwards and he’d lashed out at anyone he could. Only little boys cried over bad dreams, that’s what he’d told himself. 

Yet Dorian didn’t mock him, or recoil backwards in disgust- he was only gentle, only kind, with no pity in his gaze. 

Panting in exhaustion, lying limp against the pillow, he turned his face back up towards him miserably. “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t... I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why that one particularly was so awful. I didn’t mean to worry you, or keep you up, I realise it’s very late and-”

Dorian smiled as he pressed his finger to Cullen’s lips, cutting him off mid sentence. “If you apologize to me one more time I might have to do something drastic like... tickle you until you stop.”

The playful threat took him by surprise, enough so that his grief slid away. “I- you wouldn’t. I’m not even ticklish-”

“I beg your pardon, Commander Rutherford, but I have become quite intimately acquainted with your body these past few months and you are entirely incorrect.” Briefly, his fingers slid down to his ribs, one delicate stroke all it took to have him laughing and squirming. “You are so adorably ticklish that you giggle just when I look at you.”

“Alright, alright,” Cullen said, breathless for better reasons now as Dorian gave him a reprieve and let his hand lie flat against his hip. “I’m sorry-”

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian said, something akin to disappointment in his tone. He kissed him again, this time only gently, with his lips closed and his fingers laced with Cullen’s. “You don’t _owe_ me any apologies, Cullen.”

Cullen rested his forehead against his, nuzzling briefly at him. “You deserve better than a broken man,” he said, not quite sleepy but certainly exhausted. 

He saw the stillness that overtook Dorian, the way his expression stilled and went silent, as if his words had struck a nerve. 

“Dorian?”

“Shh.” Dorian hushed him instantly, the look gone from his face as swiftly as it had appeared. He cupped the nape of Cullen’s neck and pulled him closer so he could kiss between his eyes, his lips trailing over his face. “You deserve rest,” he said softly, murmuring the words against his cheek as his mouth meandered towards the line of his jaw.

There was a slight flare of panic in him at the thought of slipping back into the dreams. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said, a whining edge to his voice that would have made him scowl in embarrassment were he in his right mind. 

Casting about desperately for inspiration, he blurted out “Read to me?”

He saw him blink in surprise, and then Dorian was chuckling. “I was under the impression that this was a tactic used by small children,” he said, his hand smoothing down the faint curve of Cullen’s hip. He was finally warming up, his flesh no longer clammy beneath Dorian’s fingers. “Not good-looking men who already have me twisted and tangled around their little finger and have me at their beck and call.”

His humour was infectious. “Who are these other men? I demand to know so that I can fight them for your affections.”

Dorian laughed, their bodies entwined and relaxed at long last. “Oh amatus, duelling for my hand? You’ll make me swoon.”

Cullen nuzzled against his throat. “I mean, if that was- only if it was something you wanted, of course, I wouldn’t make any decisions on your behalf about how to conduct yourself or manage your personal relationships, so I mean if-”

Dorian silenced him with a kiss. “You are adorable even when you’re flustered and trying not to threaten to kill imaginary, non-existent suitors.”

Even in the darkness, he knew there was no way to hide the red flush to his cheeks. “Would... should I fetch a book?” 

“Mm, I’ve no real desire for either of us to move,” Dorian said, stretching languidly and dragging Cullen further into his embrace. “Maybe I can think of a story to tell... Ahh! My mother used to tell me this story when I was a boy. Or, rather, she had the servants tell it to me.”

“A story from _Tevinter_ ,” Cullen complained, his nose wrinkling.

“ _You_ love something _Tevinter_ ,” Dorian said with a smirk, kissing his nose. “Besides, it happens to be about a handsome knight who saves a maiden from a dragon, your Southern sense of heroics should light up at that, yes?”

Cullen muttered something, but he nuzzled a little closer, and Dorian took that as a sign that he should continue.

“There was a little village, tucked in the mountains of the High Reaches-”

______

“-and as they kissed, he knew that she had saved him, as surely as he had saved her, and they spent their years together in great happiness, for even when they faced moments of darkness, the knew they had one another. The end. There, now wasn’t that-”

Dorian lifted his head to find that Cullen was fast asleep, his eyelids fluttering ever so faintly. He looked so peaceful and sweet and _good_ that Dorian nearly kissed him before reminding himself that Cullen needed the rest far more than he needed to indulge his unending desire for him.

He leaned his brow to Cullen’s, softly tracing his knuckles over his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, half expecting Cullen to open his eyes at the words. When he remained still, his breathing slow and calm, Dorian breathed a sigh of relief.

' _You deserve better than a broken man_.'

Dorian held him a little tighter.

“And I _have_ better,” he said, closing his eyes and letting Cullen’s slow, steady breathing lull him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

He dreamed no more that night- well, not that Dorian could tell. If the nightmares had dragged Cullen under yet again, he’d managed to hide it well enough that it hadn’t disrupted his sleep at all. 

He’d fallen asleep with grey light outlining the distant mountain peaks on the valley’s edge, and when he blinked again, it was as if the hours had passed by in mere seconds, and the comforting sunlight was streaming down through the broken roof. He was sprawled on his stomach, the warmth of the sun on his bare back as the blanket lay pooled around his waist- and he was most definitely alone, given how much of the bed he was taking up.

When Dorian opened his eyes properly, wincing at the brightness and fighting back a moan and a fierce desire to bury his head under a pillow, he knew by the slant of the sun across the bed that it was nearing noon. Back in Tevinter he had lounged around in the sunshine like a contented cat, and noon had been rather early for him- no one of any worth in the Imperium would be seen in the uncivilized hours before _noon_ , by the _Maker_ -, but as a productive member of the Inquisition, there was no time to lay about.

He rolled onto his back and winced again, glaring up at the cheerful blue sky overhead with narrowed eyes; his head ached powerfully, either a result of spending half the night more tense than the drawstring on a bow, or he’d truly had more to drink the evening before than he’d assumed. It was nothing a small mouthful of elfroot couldn’t cure, but the inconvenience of it all made him feel remarkably churlish. 

With a groan he levered himself onto his side, all but flopping sulkily from the bed before he stumbled to the cabinet he’d insisted on having dragged up to Cullen’s loft; he still had his own room of course, where he stored most of his things, but he’d be damned if he was going to live out of a trunk the way Cullen seemed content with. He counted it as a major victory that he’d managed to convince him to have the raw timber and tools removed from taking up a good third of the space- left to his own devices, Dorian wasn’t entirely convinced that Cullen wouldn’t have just propped a pillow up against the rubble and tried to argue that he was perfectly comfortable without a bed, and that there were more important things to attend to with their funds.

There was still a sachet of sugared elfroot in amongst his toiletries, and he tore it open to chew on while he set about making himself vaguely more presentable. Just because Cullen could pull off the unshaved aesthetic with dashingly handsome results did not mean that the rest of them could. By the time he was dressed and grumbling to himself as he clambered down the ladder into Cullen’s office, the ache had abated to a small, dull throb behind his eyes.

Bearable, if nothing else. 

Cullen was alone, by the grace of Andraste- the first time Dorian had slid downstairs only to come face to face with a room full of red faced recruits all staring bug-eyed while they fought not to giggle had been an _experience_ , to say the least. He didn’t look up, though, not immediately- lost in his work as always. Dorian hesitated, one hand still on a rung of the ladder; the night had clearly been a thousand times worse on Cullen than on him, understandably so, and Maker only knew how early he’d forced himself out of bed to continue his relentless drive towards perfectionism and atonement. 

His hair was a ruffled mess of untamed curls, and whether it was simply unbrushed bedhead or whether he’d gone through his morning ablutions only to have ruined it by running his hands through his hair in frustration several dozen times, he couldn’t say at a glance. He looked haggard, his face drawn and his eyes ringed with dark shadows, and Dorian felt something in his chest fracture a little to see him struggling on so determinedly. 

The moment of hesitation stretched onwards, Dorian unsure if he should approach Cullen, if he was even receptive to touch right now or if he needed space. What good was his droll confidence and charming quips in the face of the weight of Cullen’s suffering- an insincere smile and a thick skin served him well enough when it was his own well-being at stake, but this? The chest-crushing ache of _hurting_ for someone else, the hopelessness that came from seeing their agony and being unable to do anything about it?

This was new. He thought he’d understood it, watching Felix waste away by inches, but the empathy he’d felt for an old and dear friend coming to terms with his own mortality was... well. Heartbreaking, but there was a certain relief in the inevitable. 

Cullen’s withdrawals were terrible, but there was familiarity there. Addiction he understood, and on the worst days he could even help- a distraction, a discreetly placed tonic making its way to his desk, a pair of magically cool hands placed on his brow to ease the ache of a headache. But nightmares, bad memories? He couldn’t fight memories. They clung to him, like shadows, heavy on his shoulders, and Dorian knew that he carried them with him at all times. 

This wasn’t like leeching out poison. The more Cullen told him, the worse he shivered, and the harder he cried. Maybe there was no being rid of it. Maybe it was a shadow and a stain and a weight he had to carry around forever.

Dorian couldn’t say that though, and he didn’t even want to think it either, not truly. He loved Cullen too much to resign himself to believing this was only the way things needed to be, that he had to hurt and hurt and hurt forever.

But he had never seen the sorts of horrors that Cullen had been exposed to; he had half meant it as a joke when he’d said he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life screaming on the inside, but seeing the anxiety and the panic and the little frustrations that Cullen dealt with every day... it didn’t seem like such an amusing choice of words anymore. And maybe he was selfish, maybe it made him the worst kind of person to be relieved that he didn’t have to deal with that sort of trauma.

‘ _You deserve better than a broken man._ ’ 

The words hurt, more than he could tell Cullen, more than he probably even realized. Cullen had shown him love and tenderness and compassion and respect and a million other things that made Dorian feel whole. What more could he possibly want to give him? What more could Dorian ever ask of him?

For years he had been a pleasant distraction, a pretty diversion, a dalliance that amounted to nothing but an hour of steamy breath and nails dragging down backs, or alternatively a source of great shame and anger and bitterness. Cullen saw him as someone worth more, and so how could he deserve _better_ than someone already so _good_?

And now he was maudlin, ugh. How tiresome. 

He shook himself and smiled as he stepped quietly around the desk to where Cullen sat, utterly engrossed in the mess of papers on his desk and clearly off in his own world; Dorian leaned in, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, chuckling softly when Cullen jumped slightly at the slow embrace and the touch of lips against his ear. A moment later he joined him in the laughter, his relief palpable

“You let me sleep in,” he murmured against his hair, closing his lips gently over the curve of his ear and tugging carefully with his teeth. 

Cullen leaned back into his embrace a little, turning his head slightly to place a chaste kiss on the edge of his jaw. “One of us deserved a good night’s sleep, if nothing else,” he said quietly, touching Dorian’s cheek briefly. There was something hesitant in his words, almost guarded, as if he was internally cringing waiting for mockery or a reprimand for the night before. 

“Mm, I’m fairly certain _you_ deserved the rest more than I,” Dorian said in an exaggerated scolding tone. “If I didn’t know any better, _Commander Rutherford_ , I would be inclined to suspect that you wanted me to sleep in so that you could get some work done free from distraction.”

He felt Cullen tense slightly, and smiled to himself. Transparent as Serault glass, he was.

“Mind you, I am not all that wounded to be thought of as a distraction, as devastatingly handsome as I am,” he continued. “I do understand, it is both a privilege and a burden to be in my presence and be so blinded by my exquisite charm and good looks.”

When Cullen opened his mouth to respond, Dorian leaned a little further over his shoulder and grabbed one of the parchments littered across his desk.

“And this is the mess you abandon me for?” Dorian asked. “Honestly, it’s like having a child sometimes, how often I have to pick up af-” His eyes found a single word, _Adamant_ , and paused. His gaze ran along the line, taking in the full sentence, and his eyes widened; a chill ran up his spine, and his insides shivered.

“Adamant,” he said. “What in the Maker’s name is happening there?”

Anyone with even a layman’s grasp of history knew the name of the great Adamant Fortress, indomitable and unbreachable, the stalwart bastion of the Grey Wardens that had stood firm against the crushing darkness of the Second Blight. And perhaps even more importantly, for those with a keen interest in the politics of the Circles and the Chantry, Adamant held the dubious honor of having exposed the horrors of the Rite of Tranquility to the rest of the world two years earlier, when an Orlesian Tranquil mage had unleashed a horde of demons on the unsuspecting inhabitants in a terrifyingly successful attempt at reversing tranquility. 

And more than that, it was perched on the very far end of the world, on the edge of the nightmarish Abyssal Rift- a blackened, Blight-sick chasm so deep that stories claimed stretched straight to the Void itself. 

And it was a very, _very_ long way from Skyhold.

Cullen sighed wearily, and tugged on Dorian’s arm, guiding him around the chair and coaxing him gently onto his lap. Not that it required much coaxing on his part, honestly- once Dorian realized what the gesture was, he settled himself comfortably over his legs, one arm going around the back of his shoulders while the other kept hold of the offending piece of parchment. Cullen gently pried it from between his fingers and set it back on the desk, taking his hand in his and twining their fingers together. 

“The wardens that remain have retreated to Adamant,” he said quietly. He was warm, and Dorian curled in against him, resting his cheek against Cullen’s hair. “Their numbers are not vast, but if they have continued to listen to Corypheus’ agents and have determined to hold to their current course of action- the demon army that you and Namaethelle saw in the future- then we have no choice but to take the fight to them.”

He looked up and held Dorian’s gaze. “We’re planning for war,” he said simply, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Dorian’s knuckles, his golden eyes somber. “A march across Orlais, to the Fortress. Logistically, the march itself is of most immediate concern, but...” He swallowed, and Dorian’s eyes were drawn to the way his throat moved. “There will be a siege, a battle. It was decided last night in the war council.”

“... well,” Dorian said after a heavy pause, “that is, very possibly, a strong contender for ‘ _reasons your stress levels peaked so appallingly high last night_ ’.”

Cullen sighed, a miserable sound if ever he’d heard one, and ducked his head back under Dorian’s chin. It was vaguely needy, the way he clung to him, and something in Dorian’s chest melted a little at that. 

But as for the rest... his skin prickled at the words. Open warfare against an order as ancient and legendary as the Grey Wardens- no institution was beyond reproach, no individual above the ability to stumble and fall to corruption, so why did those words send such an intense feeling of dread through him? What did he think they’d been building to these past few months? What did he think they were doing, high in the mountains, with mortar and ballistae and battlements around them?

_Oh, nothing serious, not at all! Simply attempting to lay siege to one of the most formidable fortresses in the world, at the very far edge of the world, in some of the most inhospitable terrain in the world, against an order attempting to empty the Fade itself of the untold legions of demons in some perverted attempt to cancel out one evil with another. Why, they’d be done before lunch and able to stop for a spot of sightseeing, take in the marvels of the corrupted abyss said to invoke nightmares just from staring at it for too long._

It was sometimes far too easy to forget the world beyond their gates, when he had found so much comfort here. Harder still to look beyond the walls of this very tower, when so much of his heart and his hope lay within. 

Dorian sighed, turning his gaze to the papers strewn across Cullen’s desk. Battle plans, he saw now; there were nearly a dozen different strategies laid out before Cullen in his familiar scribbled handwriting, with a few marked emphatically with ink smeared by an impatient hand- clearly his favorites, if he’d been unable even to wait on dry ink before moving on with some other calculation or observation. Sometimes, when they weren’t playing chess and he wasn’t watching Cullen speak to the troops, it was easy to forget how brilliant he was, how confident in his duties, how keenly he saw everything two or three steps ahead.

“Last night in the war council, you say,” Dorian said slowly, turning his eyes back to Cullen. “We were together last night, if memory serves. Why am I just hearing about this now?”

“We were _not_ -” Cullen paused, blushing to the tips of his ears and Dorian bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing. “Oh. You meant... together as in, sharing one another’s company, not together as in, well...” He cleared his throat instead, his face an adorable shade of pink. “It was not that I was keeping it from you Dorian, I promise, it was... it was more about needing time to absorb it. I-”

Maker take him, if he blushed anymore he was going to catch alight. “My, my- how interesting that your immediate assumption was that I simply _had_ to be talking about the intoxicating pleasure to be found in wild, animalistic sex, and not the quiet enjoyment of spending an evening in the company of someone I love and admire.”

Cullen groaned. “I was not hiding it from you, Dorian, I swear to you. Sometimes I enjoy being able to forget... with you, I mean. To just leave all of this-” He gestured to the desktop strewn with paper, “- down here and not have to think about anything but how much I love you and love being in your company. Except,” and now he tipped his head to the side, a flush of guilt in his eyes as he looked away, “when the stress follows me into my sleep, of course.”

Dorian felt a pang of something in his chest- grief, maybe, or frustration on Cullen’s behalf. He was not particularly good at feeling helpless, and he felt nothing _but_ helpless in the face of the demons Cullen carried in his head. “Hmm,” Dorian mused, running his hand up the side of Cullen’s neck until he cupped his cheek in his palm, turning his face up towards him. “I suppose you think yourself insufferably charming with a line like that.”

Cullen’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile, the grief in his eyes slowly burning away with the onset of something more. “I was under the impression I’d already been deemed insufferably charming.”

“You are very skilled at digging yourself out of a hole, Commander.” He kissed him, softly, and leaned their heads together. 

Cullen’s fingers were stroking at the curve of his neck, a whisper of a touch as they rested together. “I don’t mean to find myself in them,” he murmured, rubbing his nose gently against his. “Sometimes it’s just so hard to think straight around you.”

“Well, it’s hardly _my_ fault I’m so attractive that I nullify heterosexuality.”

The pained groan that followed his terrible play on words was to be expected, but despite Cullen’s grumbling, there was a smile on his face. A significant improvement, and for that Dorian counted himself quite brilliant. And really, Cullen ought to smile constantly- it took years of pain and grief away from his face, the lines beside his eyes looking instead like laughter lines. His smile had some sort of devious power that made Dorian’s stomach flutter like a dozen moths had taken up residency, even after all these months to inure himself to it.

As badly as he wanted to keep kissing him, Dorian knew that he had to ask- he had to know what was coming.

“So. Adamant,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “When do we leave?” 

It wasn’t that he feared facing the Wardens, or that he was scared for himself- well, no more than normal. This was so much _bigger_ than anything they’d done so far, more than dealing with power-hungry cultists and corrupted templars; no one would fault them for removing a camp full of the Venatori, or a raiding party of red lyrium monsters. But the Wardens? A siege against one of the most legendary fortresses in the world? He knew as soon as they reached Adamant, he and Cullen would be separated, Cullen moving with his soldiers, Dorian fighting side-by-side with Namaethelle, and that was _different_ to riding from Skyhold in a scouting party and knowing that Cullen would be waiting for his return with open arms and relief in his eyes.

And how ironic was it, that it tore him up inside to think of Cullen going into battle- indomitable, unflinching, recklessly immortal _Cullen_ , who was far more at home on a field of war than he was in the fine ballrooms and conference rooms he’d been mostly confined to? 

He knew that it could be the last time they ever-

Dangerous thoughts. Dorian pushed them away.

“As soon as we can, ideally,” Cullen said quietly, running his hand up and down Dorian’s arm, apparently oblivious to the distraught direction his thoughts were taking. “It’s a long way even with ideal travelling conditions, and it’s the wrong time of year for that. Combined with the fact that the siege equipment will slow us down, and an army never travels quickly to begin with- plus, as Josephine pointed out, there are parts of southern Orlais that will be difficult to traverse, given that the civil war has caused so much structural damage to the roads and the bridges...”

He sighed. “I don’t know when we leave. There’s another meeting this afternoon where we’re all to take our proposals back to the council and see what we each have to work with, and what we all need. I didn’t have anything prepared ahead of time calculating the cost and time frame for a forced march...”

He trailed off, and Dorian realized after a moment that he was staring at the hint of his chest that was visible through his unlaced shirt, and despite his best efforts he felt his cheeks flush, biting his lip in amusement. 

There was going to be plenty of time to discuss the logistics and to plan for every eventuality and roadblock and detour. Dorian had not the attention span for strategy or tactics or the movement and advancement of troops, but he _did_ have a mind for distracting handsome Commanders when their duties placed a permanent furrow on their brow.

“There’s plenty of time for all of that,” Dorian murmured, prodding him rather firmly in the center of his chest. “I think the more pressing matter, at the moment, is this mess you’ve made. I guarantee you there are more... stimulating things to spread across your desk.”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, a smile playing over his lips. “Is that a fact, is it?” he asked, shaking his head slightly as if he was a breath away from bursting into laughter. The hand running up and down Dorian’s arm turned a little less soothing and a little more teasing, a little more direct in the way he ran his palm over his skin. “Well, you would be the authority on that, I’ll defer to your judgement on the matter... and I _do_ need to say thank you for last night...”

“Maker’s Breath, you don’t need to _thank_ me for last night, you beautiful fool.”

The wicked look in Cullen’s eyes stole away any further arguments he might have tried to offer, and he held his breath as Cullen’s hand traveled further up his arm and along the line of his neck, his fingers spanning out to twine through his hair and cradle the back of his head and guide him down to meet Cullen’s lips. 

Dorian’s eyes fluttered shut as he kissed him slow and deep, his mouth quietly demanding in that way of his that Cullen seemed to command so easily. The bold stroke of his tongue against his lips was less a request and more a pointed claim, and Dorian melted into him, a slow burning ache building in him as he wriggled on his lap, only for Cullen’s hand to tighten around his waist as if to pin him in place. Each little murmur of encouragement against his mouth set his temperature a little higher, and he let out a rather embarrassing whimper- _not_ a squeak, _certainly_ not a squeak- when Cullen abruptly slid his hand down to his mid back, the other hooking underneath his knees.

He didn’t give him any warning as he rose to his feet, Dorian clutched safely in his arms, before seating him comfortably on the edge of the desk and coming to stand between his knees. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to _startle_ you, Lord Pavus,” he murmured against his mouth, his hands sliding up his thighs.

“Someone woke up feisty, I see,” Dorian said, his voice husky and low. He dragged Cullen closer, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt until he was close enough to squeeze him tight between his legs. He slid his hands over his shoulders, pulling him flush against his body, and kissed him hungrily. Just like that, Cullen had set a fire in him, a fierce desire burning under his skin that was far too intense to be described as merely need or want.

He _craved_ Cullen.

“There’s such a mess here,” Dorian whispered, breaking their kiss and leaning a little away from him. “Are you going to take me on top of a pile of papers, amatus? Am _I_ your new favorite strategy now?”

Cullen chased after him as he leaned away, placing nipping kisses along his jaw and down his chin as his fingers tugged at the laces on the front of Dorian's pants. “You very well might be,” he murmured, easing his breeches open enough to take him in hand, half hard already from their teasing. “I certainly have a tactical advantage at the moment that I’d like to explore further.”

Dorian gasped, the heat in his belly spiking dangerously at Cullen’s boldness. He bit his lips and rocked his hips, putting friction between his growing erection and Cullen’s hand even as he glanced towards one of the three doors, half expecting it to fly open as he watched. Cullen followed the direction of his eyes and chuckled, a smirk playing over his lips as he squeezed tauntingly at his cock. 

“ _Ah_ , Cullen-” He tried to say something witty and playful, but all he could do was moan and drop his head back, leaning back on his hands as he thickened in Cullen’s grip. 

“Something you wanted to say, Dorian?”

He swallowed down the flutter of nerves at the thought of the doors opening, already panting with need. “ _Ah_ , I’m all yours, amatus,” Dorian said, his voice shivering. “ _Anything_ you want.”

Cullen rolled his hand up and down the length of Dorian’s cock, running his thumb over the head and spreading the first traces of liquid over the flushed red flesh. Dorian whimpered in response, lifting his head back up to watch Cullen’s face, gasping at the fire in his golden eyes and the way his nostrils flared as his breathing grew heavier. 

“I’ve only ever wanted you,” Cullen said, voice low and raw as he leaned in close to him, close enough that their breath mingled. When Dorian licked his lips, Cullen’s gaze narrowed in on them instantly. “Maker, but you’re _exquisite_ like this.”

Dorian moaned, and Cullen pushed forward that last half an inch to capture his mouth in a bruising, hungry kiss. He never wanted to get tired of this- the way Cullen swung between shyly bashful in his affections to voraciously demanding and worshipful, leaving him a trembling, shivering mess no matter how he pleasured him. 

More. He needed _more_. 

As hot as he was- and Dorian was surprised he couldn’t feel his blood bubbling and boiling as flushed as his skin was- he managed to collect himself enough to slide a hand between them, dragging his fingers along Cullen’s stomach as he fumbled for the front of his breeches. His fingers shook as he tried to unlace them, and the way Cullen smiled against his mouth and deepened the kiss until he whimpered did nothing to help. 

_Hah_ \- he thought himself clever enough to try to thwart him. Nothing could stop his indomitable spirit, certainly not some far-too-smug-for-his-own-good swordsman. 

Cullen, blast him, did not attempt to make things any easier, kissing him and stroking his tongue with his in time to the rhythm of his hand between his legs; Dorian tugged Cullen’s breeches low, his fingers quick to grab hold of his half-hard cock and drag him free of his pants. He swallowed roughly when their cocks pressed together, his eye fluttering as he stroked their pulsing skin and rocked his hips.

“Maker,” Dorian groaned, his thighs aching sharply as he pressed them as far apart as possible, fitting Cullen as tightly up against him as their position would allow. “ _Kaffas_.”

Cullen finally moaned and rolled his hips between Dorian’s legs, and any victory gloating was swallowed up by the shivering flood of sensations his thrust sparked in him; when he reached between them and covered Dorian’s hand with his own, his smug triumph was ruined by his needy whimper. Cullen, breathing heavily, slid his free hand up into Dorian’s hair, kissing him thoroughly until Dorian’s head was spinning, and when he broke away to gasp for air, Cullen very deliberately squeezed them both until they groaned together. 

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Dorian’s, setting a rhythm with his hips and his hand. “The doors aren’t locked,” Cullen rasped, a thrill sizzling through him at the teasing reminder and adding to the rapidly building blaze within him, “anyone could walk in and find us.”

It wasn’t like there was a single person in Skyhold who didn’t know the two of them were intimate together, but there was a huge difference between knowing and stumbling upon the physical evidence. 

The risk _excited_ him, rather than frightening him.

Cullen seemed to sense it too, his golden eyes dark with lust and satisfaction. “Anyone could walk in and see me claiming you,” he whispered, kissing him hard.

Dorian’s free hand was propping him up on the desk, and as Cullen chased his mouth and almost overwhelmed him, the loose sheets of paper he was leaning on slipped suddenly; Dorian would have gone tumbling backwards were it not for Cullen’s almost iron grip on him, his hand almost possessively firm against the back of his neck, but the moment did cause a wobbly little gasp to burst from him, quickly followed after by ridiculous giggles between the two of them.

“Are you alright?” 

Nodding almost frantically, Dorian whispered “Just kiss me.”

His kiss was crushing, more intense than Dorian ever remembered being kissed, and when he gasped at the way his calloused fingers rubbed them together, Cullen took advantage of the moment to tilt his head back and deepen the kiss. Trusting him to keep him from sprawling backwards onto the desk, Dorian reached up and ran his hand up into his hair, his nails sinking into his scalp as he clung to him. Dorian still wanted harder, hotter, deeper. He begged him, when their lips broke apart; begged him to rut against him, to kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, to drown him and burn him and bury him there.

“ _Please_ ,” he whimpered, because he didn’t have the breath for anything more coherent. “Cullen, _please_.”

Cullen conceded to Dorian’s breathless demands, one free hand sliding down to the small of his back and dragging him closer to the edge of the desk, his hips forcing his thighs wider apart still, bringing them even closer together as he thrust against him and into their joined hands. 

He could feel his end approaching, the heat building in his lower back and his groin, his balls tightening, and he gasped against Cullen’s mouth. “ _Amatus-_ ”

“Come for me, love,” he growled. “Come for me _hard_.”

His pleasure was so sharp it was almost painful, spiking through him as he kissed Cullen roughly and half sobbed into his mouth.

Dorian came with a hard shudder, his body locking as he spilled over his hand and stomach. His thighs tightened around Cullen, enough that even in the haze of lust and pleasure he heard him groan; he kept jerking his hips as he spent himself, working Cullen to his own edge, kissing at his lips and face absently, feverishly, whispering filthy things to him that he honestly didn’t even register.

It was entirely possible that in his delirium he slipped back into Tevene, but a man had to have some secrets after all. 

The wet heat of Dorian’s cum trickled over their fingers, and the shudder that passed through him as he cried out shivered through Cullen as well. He growled out something that could have been his name, pumping his hand over himself in time to Dorian’s faltering rhythm, and with a choking noise that he buried in the curve of his neck, he joined him in completion, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as he came. 

For a few long moments they were frozen together, spent and shivering and dazed, their combined seed quickly cooling and growing sticky over their hands and clothing. Cullen laughed hoarsely, pressing a kiss that was more teeth than anything to Dorian’s neck, nuzzling a moment later at the spot and trailing his mouth higher.

“I really hope that was just the drafts you were sitting on,” he chuckled, leaning back and slowly easing his grip on both of their cocks. Cullen’s eyes were glazed and satisfied, but Dorian saw the small flicker of heat there as Cullen lifted his hand to his mouth and licked at the mess.

Dorian smiled, a little weak from his orgasm, and reached up to lead Cullen’s fingers to his mouth. He licked and sucked them clean, leaning up slowly when some strength returned to him. His head swam, but he had enough of his senses left to him to keep his feet planted when he stood up from Cullen’s desk.

His arms looped around his neck, and he peppered his throat and jaw with kisses, his lips burning against his stubble.

“You’re so committed to your duties,” Dorian teased. “That’s funny. I didn’t hear you worried for your drafts five minutes ago.”

Cullen chuckled and slid one arm around his waist while the other very politedly slid between them to fix their breeches. “I was _distracted_ ,” he said, reinforcing the point with a quick kiss, “by a very,” and then another kiss, “attractive,” and another, “Altus,” and another, “rake,” and another, “who charmed his way,” and yet another kiss, “into my heart.”

Dorian’s hand slipped from the back of his neck to rest at the center of his chest, nails curling over where Cullen’s heart beat. “Where else would I rather be?” Dorian asked softly, smiling when Cullen kissed him a little harder and deeper than his quick pecks.

Adamant loomed at the back of his mind, a heavy and oppressive shadow that he couldn’t quite shake. But they were together, there and now, and for Dorian that was enough.

Whatever came later... came later.

They made their goodbyes a short time later, Dorian reluctantly accepting that Cullen did in fact have a great deal of work to do if he was to have any kind of plausible proposal to take to the next session of the war council. He didn’t envy him the hours he’d have to spend liaising with the quartermaster and his lieutenants and field captains, but he did quietly resent them for taking Cullen’s attention away from him. 

It had been six months since their tumultuous night together on the road to Skyhold, and he still couldn’t quite rein in that little bubble of jealousy fuelled by his insecurities- the little voice that rather smugly informed him in his weaker moments that Cullen’s interest in him was only fleeting.

That he’d managed to ignore it for so long was a testament to the trust Cullen inspired in him. 

He avoided the more populated areas of the Keep as he crept back to his room to tidy up- learning to be comfortable with the general public knowing he was in a relationship was one thing, but strutting about with bedhead with stains on his clothing and reeking of sex was another thing entirely.

The dining hall kept up a fairly comfortable spread of food on hand throughout the day, well aware that people came and went at all hours of the day and night, switching shifts and arriving from delayed caravans through the mountains or- in Dorian’s case- sleeping half the day away only to be distracted by the promise of pleasure. After the detour to his quarters to wash away all evidence of his morning of scandalous love-making atop a pile of maps and requisition orders, he found himself staring absently down at the meagre aftermath of the lunch rush, the sideboard yet to be replenished with the smaller offerings that would usually tide them over until supper. With a sigh, he picked up a plate and wrinkled his nose at some of the pathetic dregs left on the plates- dry, wilted bacon that looked more like leather, the crumbled edges of what appeared to have been a rather magnificent cheese platter at some point, half of a savoury muffin...

Honestly, what sort of malicious cad left half a muffin? It was almost taunting, deliberately cruel. 

“Ah, there you are.”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder to find Solas at his elbow, the pleasantly mellow smile on his face far too suspicious. “Now, you say that as if I’ve eluded you all morning,” Dorian said, using his hands rather than the tongs to pile up his plate with whatever still looked vaguely edible, “but your tone implies that you only set out to find me five minutes ago, and this was your first choice of location.”

“Such suspicions for such a bright afternoon- one would presume that the presence of sunshine would serve to improve your temperament for once.”

Dorian paused and looked at the window. “Is it _late_ afternoon, or just afternoon afternoon?”

Solas chuckled. “Namaethelle requires your assistance, and sent me to fetch you.”

Juggling his plate to fetch an empty mug with the other, he poured himself a coffee from the perpetually warm pot at the end of the sideboard. “Oh? No cutting jibe, no underhanded comment to undermine the fact that she clearly sought out the superior mind and the superior mage?” 

“Actually, I’ve already been assisting her all morning. She assumed that our most recent discovery would be of interest to you, and wanted you to feel a part of the proceedings.”

There was a little flutter of warmth in his chest, something vulnerable and delightful, at the thought that he’d been invited simply because someone paid enough attention to his passions and considered it important to include him. 

How pathetically over eager he could be, ugh- he’d be sure not to voice such simpering desperation aloud.

He waved the coffee mug in Solas’ direction. “By all means,” he said magnanimously, “lead the way, my dear fellow.” 

He was unsurprised when Solas led him in the direction of Ambassador Montilyet’s office and the war room, but his expectations took a sharp turn when Solas instead took the stairs down towards the lower levels, towards where the vault and the wine cellar resided. In the currently unoccupied hall below, one of the walls had been rather enthusiastically smashed in, revealing a dusty staircase that led further down yet again. Glancing sharply at Solas, who only smiled mysteriously, Dorian tightened his grip on his breakfast and stepped over the chunks of masonry to follow the stairs down. 

There were scuff marks in the dust, evidence that others had come this way recently, and he could hear at least two voices echoing up towards him. It grew darker as he descended, until he had to squint in the gloom to make out the steps, and then brighter again as he stepped down into an area illuminated by a half dozen lanterns-

He blinked, his brain slowly registering what the painful glittering substance was bouncing the light back at him. “Are those mosaics?” he asked, wandering closer to the wall to try and make out the detail in the intensely intricate pictures.

“Is that Dorian?” He grinned to himself at the excitement in Nama’s voice, and glanced over his shoulder, only to find himself still alone with Solas. Nama was nowhere to be seen. “Solas, did you-”

“He’s here,” Solas said, amusement in his voice. 

“Dorian! Where have you been, I’ve been waiting for hours for you!”

He yawned widely, hugging one arm to himself as he took a swallow of the coffee. “Perhaps if you scheduled events for a reasonable hour of the day, people would be more inclined to arrive in a timely fashion.”

There was movement out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced over to see Nama’s head appear from what he’d assumed to just be a shadow where the light did not fall on the uneven ground, but now realized to be a rather significant hole. Her face was smeared with dust, and there was cobwebs in her hair. “It’s after midday, Dorian.”

“Like I said- organize events for a reasonable hour of the day-”

“Perhaps I wanted to organize it _during_ the actual day, while the sun was still up?”

“Ugh, what a ghastly idea. _Sunlight_.”

From behind him he heard Solas chuckle. “And here I thought you had very particular things to say on the continued lack of sunlight in the south.”

Dorian waved his hand dismissively. “ _Context_ , my dear Solas, _context_ \- is the sunlight infinitely preferable to the unending misery of Ferelden rain? Unquestionably so, but that does not mean that I appreciate being forcibly roused from my bed at some uncivilized hour.”

Nama put both her arms flat on the stone floor, resting her chin on her hands. “Someone less polite than myself might be inclined to say that perhaps if you went to bed at a more sensible hour and did not spend the entire night ravishing my military advisor, that you might not greet the day with such hostility.” She smiled sweetly. “But I am, of course, far too polite to make such an observation.” 

Dorian felt his face heat until even his ears were burning. “And I am, of course, far too magnanimous to lower myself to such base speculation in the first place-”

Sera’s head appeared over the edge of the hole beside Nama, her hair askew as if she’d been clambering through the ruins for hours as well. “Just cause you use a whole bunch of fancy words don’t mean you weren’t caught for staying up all night playing with your Cully-Wully’s dingle dangle,” she said, snickering to herself.

His cheeks aflame, Dorian kept his chin held high; he had nothing to fear amongst friends, no reason to be ashamed of his relationship with Cullen. This was not Tevinter, and some ribald jesting between comrades was not the same as the mockery he would face at home. He would conquer this. “I highly doubt you would understand the complexities of- how did you put it? Playing with a dingle dangle.”

“You say that like I ain’t never shagged a girl with a dick before- girl dicks are nine million billion trillion times better than your gross boy bits.”

“And what, pray tell, are _boy bits_?”

She waved a hand in his direction, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “You’re a boy, you’ve got bits in your pants, so you’ve got boy bits. Krem de la Krem is a boy, so he got boy bits too. Either way, I ain’t interested in boy bits, only girl bits. Don’t matter what shape they are, long as there’s a lovely lady attached to ‘em.”

Dorian blinked in surprise. “That’s... surprisingly far more sensible of you than I’ve come to expect.” 

“Do you sword fight with them?”

Nama had been taking a drink from a mug she’d left on the floor near to the hole, and she spat it all over the floor of the stone. “ _Sera!_ ”

“ _What_? Honest question, I would. With noises! Like that glowy sword thing that Vivi can make.” She put her hands over her groin and began thrusting obscenely. “Schhhhum. Schhhuuum. Like that!”

“I’m going to tell Lady Vivienne that you both referred to her as _Vivi_ , and that you likened her light blade to a duelling penis.”

As he watched the two of them squabble and playfully bicker in the flickering lantern light, Dorian allowed himself to relax. This was normal, and this was friendship- the laughter and the teasing, the casual concern for his wellbeing hidden behind jokes. It was still all so terribly new, occasionally enough to rub at his raw edges, learning to let people care about him. 

It was as remarkable as it was terrifying. “On less phallic topics,” he said, raising his voice over their banter as it echoed around the cavern, “what in the Void is this place, and why are we all down here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Nama asked, looking up from where she was pretending to box with Sera- she was turning into a regular little pugilist. “It’s an ancient bathhouse- isn’t that the sort of thing that’s right up your alley?”

“Isn’t Cully-Wully normally right up in his al- _ow_!” Nama punched Sera in the arm. 

He looked around dubiously, ignoring the continued references to his personal life. “Forgive my moment of snobbery, but I normally associate bathhouses with steam. And warmth. And actual water, not empty pools full of dust. In a cave. Underground.”

“ _Oooh_ , aren’t we _fancy_ with our standards now?” Sera said, strutting up and down the length of what he now realised was an empty bathing pool, sashaying her hips with the most ridiculous exaggerated rhythm. “Dorian of House _Pavus_ , most recently of _Minrathous_ , don’t want to have a bath in a _cave_.”

Solas sighed, a pained edge to the sound, and Dorian had quite forgotten that the other mage was even present; the flush he felt on the back of his neck at knowing that he’d been exposed to Sera’s ridiculous penile humour burned, and he rubbed at his neck and shoulders in the same fashion that Cullen was prone to. “Skyhold is layered with history, stretching back thousands of years,” Solas said, coming to stand beside him as they stared down at the two women in the empty pool. “It was not built by human hands- only added on top of the existing foundations- so it stands to reason that there would be lingering remnants of inhabitants far more ancient than initial architectural assessments have shown.”

“What’s the name again?” Nama asked, her eyes shining eagerly. 

“Tarasy’lan te’las,” Solas answered obligingly, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Tarasy’lan te’las,” Nama said slowly, sounding out each syllable carefully, as if each was sacred to her.

“Tarantula titties,” Sera said in a pompous voice that he assumed was supposed to be a mimicry of Solas. 

Nama pointedly ignored her. “Didn’t you ever wonder why Skyhold is never as cold as the rest of the valley? We’re surrounded by snow, and mountains! But the courtyard is temperate, and the gardens are full of flowers that grow in all kinds of climates, and _you_ walk around half dressed most days-”

“It’s called fashion- it is a burden that comes with being so beautiful.”

“But you’re never cold, are you? Well, not as cold as you’d think, you weird cold-blooded northerner.” She took a step back and threw out her arms to gesture to their surroundings. “Well, this is the answer!”

“The answer is a dusty cave?”

“The _answer_ is geothermal heating,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “It’s a staple of dwarven architecture, and Dagna got suspicious about the consistent temperatures around the keep and organised some structural assessments- and we found this!”

“A dusty cave?”

She threw her hands up in the air in frustration. “This is the last time I try to share anything nerdy with you.”

“My darling Namaethelle, I would be delighted to partake in academic discoveries with you at a responsible hour-”

“Dorian, it’s afternoon, _Creators_.”

“But if you summon me to a bathhouse and I am not immediately greeted by half naked attendants waiting to eagerly rub oil into my body while I laze about in warm water, then what is the point?”

“Obviously, since the spring has been sealed away for so long, the pools have all dried up- and, with any situation involving geothermal activity, there was a risk that there was a buildup of noxious gases in the chambers down here so we had to keep the discovery quiet for the first day or so, but...” She practically hopped up and down in her glee. “Dorian, if we can get this working properly, then we can have hot water throughout the Keep! We can have better heating, and it’ll be so good for the infirmary, and-”

“And you can have Cully-Wully half naked and rubbing oil into your body,” Sera finished grandly. “Oops, I forgot, that already happened.”

Ignoring her while his face burned yet again, Dorian turned back to Nama. “My darling Namaethelle, as humbled as I am for your grand opinion of me, I must remind you that I am primarily a scientist and a historian- not an architect.”

“Dagna’s already got that covered,” she said, as if his words were of no concern to her. “What I need from you is someone with an extensive understanding of Tevinter rune language, especially archaic variations, because the mechanisms are operated by- and covered in- a mixture of what seems like it might be a written elvhen language and Tevinter runes. I can only make out little bits and pieces, but some of them are still imbued with magic, and frankly-” She beamed at him, “- I’d rather not blow up the Keep with my reckless experimentation.”

“So you want _me_ to blow the Keep up with my reckless experimentation.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Oh, would you?”


	3. Chapter 3

_The Western Approach  
Several weeks later_

Just when Dorian thought the South couldn’t get more miserable, they decided to trek across a blighted _desert_. Literally, a _blighted_ desert, still marked by the forgotten battles of the Second Blight. A dreadful enough experience when it was only a few people baking in the heat and pressing against the strong wind with sand stinging their eyes, but with nearly a thousand soldiers and siege equipment slowly rolling across the dunes, it became utterly torturous.

For two weeks now they had crawled their way across the desert towards Adamant, both people and animals in the immense train malcontent in the heat, already weary after the weeks long march to reach the edge of the Western Approach in the first place. Dorian didn’t mind the heat as much as the rest of them- though he could have done without the dryness cracking his skin and forcing him to steal Cole’s hat to protect himself (“Take it, please,” Cole had said, “The sun is being mean to you.”), but when the sun set and the moon and stars fanned across the desert sands, the wind and cold seemed to sink into his bones with far more malignance than the cold in the mountains.

When the sun moved below the horizon and the chill set in and the biting wind blew, they stopped their slow movements to set up camp. Honestly, by the time they could see Adamant winking in the distance, it was as much second nature as breathing; everyone setting up their tents and gathering around their fires for dinner like they had never known anything different.

His own small fire for this particular evening was shared with Cassandra and Cole. Cassandra picked at her food for a while before setting it aside and warming her fingers over the fire. Cole needed neither food nor warmth and sat with his knees pulled up under his chin and his unnatural, pale eyes flicking around the camp, alight with curiosity.

Dorian looked around the camp himself, trying to convince himself he wasn’t searching for Cullen. When he found him, moving across the sands, stopping only briefly to speak with a scout before pushing into his tent, he let out a deep, heavy sigh. They hadn’t been together since they’d set out for Adamant, having made the decision ahead of time that it would be easier on them both to have their own tents and their own space. Certainly, Cullen seemed to be keeping the most absurdly exhausting hours, because he was always awake when Dorian crawled from his bed first thing in the morning before their daily march began, and was still up and stomping almost frantically around the perimeter at night when he gave up and took himself to bed. Dorian wasn’t some lovesick boy who needed constant attention from his lover, but it would have been nice if they could’ve at least passed more than a handful of stolen moments together. Even the few precious times they’d found to spend together, Cullen had been distracted and exhausted, and Dorian’s delight at having him to himself for a moment was tempered by his immense concern at the fatigue in his eyes and the weariness in his shoulders.

Still, he knew Cullen was busy with troop movements and strategy and the logistics of the march and maintaining a safe supply train and not overexerting the army before they arrived but-

“Watching, wanting, waiting; desperate to know the touch of his hand, only briefly. Knuckles on my cheek, brushing softly, lips following when he leans in close to me. My heart flutters, a little too light, like a bird that’s remembered it can fly.”

Dorian looked to Cole, seeing Cassandra do the same from the corner of his eye.

“I told you not to do that again,” Dorian said.

“I’m sorry,” Cole said.

“That was... rather more than I needed to know,” Cassandra said.

“Oh, stuff it,” Dorian said. “I’ve read that smutty trash you call literature. I know what gets you all hot and bothered, Lady Pentaghast.”

Her lips twitched with a smile, but she managed to keep her composure. A shame, really- Dorian was looking forward to the day when her composure broke and laughter finally took her. He liked to think she snorted when she laughed too hard.

“As fine as the company is, I should be getting to bed,” Dorian said as he climbed to his feet and stretched lazily, their communal fire beginning to burn low. As he passed Cole, he placed his hat back atop his head and lightly squeezed his shoulder as he moved. “Thank you for the hat, I felt rather foolish with it on. I rather enjoyed it.”

Cole beamed, pulling his hat a little lower over his ears. “He misses you too,” he said earnestly. “He wants you to come see him.”

Dorian’s insides warmed and shivered, but he managed to keep his smile hidden as he moved from their small campsite toward his tent. His hand lingered on the flap, however, his thoughts instead drifting towards Cullen, and the last time they had shared a tent together. Certainly the circumstances had been wholly different, but it was impossible not to think of the way Cullen had looked in the flickering light of the veilfire lantern, and how the howling winds had covered their desperate cries, granting them a peculiar sense of privacy even amidst a vast camp of soldiers and refugees. 

He thought of Cole’s words- _he misses you too_ \- and took his hand away from the tent flap, clenching it against his side so that he could ignore the way it shook. Taking a deep breath, he changed course, heading through the dark of the camp towards Cullen’s tent; each step was deliberate, each moment that he walked with his head held high was a victory... but his apprehension that Cullen was too busy and didn’t actually want him there inevitably won out over Cole’s assurance that he did, in fact, want to see him.

He stumbled to a halt, heart pounding in his chest while his hands shook with adrenalin. It shouldn’t be so hard, it shouldn’t be so frightening- he wasn’t even sure what was the greater poison, the fear of people seeing him, or the fear that Cullen would dismiss him with barely a glance, boredom and irritation and disinterest in his body language.

Swallowing down the bitterness, scolding himself silently and telling himself not to be so foolish, he waited until his heartbeat began to calm again. With a sigh, he turned and headed back for his own tent.

______

Cullen scribbled out a series of commands as they came to him, last minute instructions that had come to him in bits and pieces throughout the day only to slip away again; he felt like he was trying to hold onto a million pieces of information at once, constantly revising and adapting as new information came in from the forward scouts, or as disaster struck them on the long journey across the south (one of the trebuchets had broken an axle on the torn up southern highway, and he’d agonized for hours over his decision to leave the crew to catch up to them once they’d repaired it, rather than calling on the entire column to stop and wait). He and the quartermaster must have had upwards of a dozen arguments by now, debating the difference between necessities and luxuries and what needed to take up space in the supply train- he couldn’t say it’d ever crossed his mind before that he might be threatened with mutiny just for lack of jam buns- and his head had been aching for days now, a combination of the stress and the dehydration under the fierce desert sun. 

He was tired and on edge, immensely stressed at the prospect of having overlooked some seemingly minuscule detail only for it all to come crashing down around them but for his mistake. He hadn’t stopped for supper, and he’d barely eaten at lunch; all he wanted was for the march to be over, for the waiting to be over, so that they could enact his careful plans and get down to business. There was a simplicity in battle that he appreciated, in seeing a plan come together just as he’d calculated, and it gave him a much needed sense of _control_ that he simply couldn’t find out here in the endless sands, in the endless waiting.

He could control a battlefield. That, at least, made sense to him, when not a lot else did. 

Snatching up the papers with his scrawled instructions, he ducked out of the tent again half dressed, his armor discarded for the day and his shirt laces loose and his feet bare on the sand- thank Andraste it was cool enough now to go about bare foot. He intended to find a scout still on duty, and have them run his notes to the various officers under his command who needed to be aware of his new orders, but he was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t see Dorian stalking along the side of the tent until he just about crashed into him. 

As it was he nearly stumbled, and nearly tripped him up, and his hands went up automatically to his arms to steady him, even before his brain had registered who it was. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dark outside the tent, the moonlight casting Dorian’s features in marble and silver. “Dorian?” he asked, his grip easing as his hands slid down the outside of his arms. “What are you doing skulking outside of my tent? If you needed to see me, you could have just come in.”

If he hadn’t been watching him so keenly, he might have missed the flicker of fear and longing in his eyes, smothered up a moment later by a charming, heated smile that sent lust spiraling through him. Dorian’s hands smoothed over his chest, fingers toying with the open laces over his chest. “Déjà vu,” he murmured, his eyes a thousand miles away. “How many times must we meet outside of a tent like this before we’re just...”

He trailed off and Cullen held his breath. 

Dorian finally sighed. “Is there a point where we’re just allowed to _exist_ , to be together, in a home together like two normal people who love one another?”

His heart stopped. “Dorian?” 

Hearing him speak seemed to break him of whatever held him in thrall, and he shook himself, the smile brightening. “I didn’t want to bother you,” Dorian said, his tone almost coquettish. “I know how busy you’ve been and- here I am being the wonderfully sensitive, amazingly considerate man that I always am and yet you’re fussing at me.” He smiled, bundling his chilly hands up in the front of Cullen’s shirt and pressing a kiss under his jaw that made Cullen inhale sharply. “What did I do to deserve such shabby treatment?” Dorian teased, his voice a whisper against his throat.

Cullen’s stomach dropped in distress, and his arms went around Dorian instantly. “Shabby treatment?” he repeated in dismay, scarcely caring at this point whether or not anyone was watching; everyone knew they were involved with one another, after all, so it wasn’t like it was anything bewildering for the two of them to be seen being affectionate in public. “I- what? Dorian, have I done something wrong?”

He felt the way his breathing hitched, the way hesitation settled over him, and then Dorian was laughing softly, almost ruefully, as he pulled away slightly. “Well, I’d wager you’ve not been eating or sleeping properly, as always,” he said, ignoring Cullen’s guilty flinch, “but that’s neither here nor there. Certainly it has no bearing on my woeful attempts at humor.”

“But, you said-”

“Shh, darling,” Dorian hushed, leaning in close until his nose nuzzled up beside his. “It was a joke, a bad one. I only meant-”

He made a sound of frustration, and then Dorian was kissing him, having apparently abandoned his attempts to explain his peculiar mood. He felt a flood of heat at the contact, his skin flushing and pricking at the softness of his lips, like his senses had forgotten just how marvelous it was. “Just kiss me,” Dorian whispered hoarsely against his mouth. “I miss you, amatus.”

Relief settled over him like a blanket, followed quickly by desire as Dorian continued his playfully affectionate game; he’d never known Dorian to be so comfortable with open displays of intimacy, and even if they were standing in the shadows of a moonlit camp, this was perhaps the most daring he’d been to date. 

Knowing that he was slowly coming to terms with his fears and overcoming them, knowing that he felt comfortable expressing himself more openly, well... there was something powerful arousing in that, surprisingly so. 

The reports in his hand were slowly crumbled into a ball as his hands went tighter around him, pulling him flush against him. He didn’t question the demand for kisses, nor did he attempt to tease- he just complied, eagerly so, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip and demanding entry. 

“I’ve missed you too," he rasped, swallowing back a wave of lust as the taste of him settled on his tongue, as his mustache tickled familiarly at his lip. 

He’d grown so familiar with spending every night with him, settling in his arms and listening to the beat of his heart, that it hurt to be apart from him. Perhaps that was romantic drivel, perhaps Dorian would laugh if he told him that, but Cullen didn’t care. He loved him, and he wanted to be with him. They would arrive at Adamant soon, and he wanted at least one more night together before...

Before?

Dorian took Cullen’s hand and laced their fingers together. He tugged Cullen towards the open flap of his tent. “Come with me,” he said, trailing his eyes to the papers crumpled in Cullen’s other hand before meeting his gaze. “That can wait, can it not?”

Cullen followed the line of his gaze, down to the papers held in one hand, and then looked to the other, where his fingers were twined tight with Dorian’s. He looked back up to him, to where his dark grey eyes glittered in the darkness.

He swallowed.

"It can wait," he said, and then he was pushing Dorian back towards the tent, the papers fluttering forgotten at his feet the moment they were through the open canvas flaps. The look of surprise on Dorian’s face quickly morphed into wicked delight, and then Cullen had him pinned in his arms, crushing him to him as he kissed him breathless. 

He meant to apologize to him for being so busy the last few weeks, for not finding time for him; he meant to confess to how hard it’d been sleeping, especially sleeping alone, to tell him of his withdrawals and nightmares since they'd been apart, but...

Being so near to him, in the warm, cozy space of his tent, he was suddenly aware of how good he looked with his shirt loose and unbuttoned just enough to show off his chest, and his hair softly messy around his face and his eyes dark and half lidded-

“Maker,” Dorian breathed, apparently of the same mindset. Every thought went out of his head. All he could think was how badly he wanted to kiss him and run his hands over him and make it so their bodies didn't have even an inch separating them.

"You're so beautiful," Dorian whispered hoarsely, before his hand was tangled in Cullen's hair and he was kissing him hard enough to make his lips tingle.

Their clothes soon followed the papers to lie crumpled on the floor, and there were whispered giggles and quiet pleas and desperate moments where their breath caught in their chests and their hands and their mouths said everything that their hearts wanted to say. 

A soldier’s bedroll in a tent in a desert was an odd place for love to flourish, but that hardly seemed relevant when they were lost in each other. Every touch, every kiss, every shuddering sigh as fingers danced over bare skin and bodies moved as one- all of it took them further away from the present, away from the threat of war and the threat of death, away from the looming specter of evil that threatened everything and everyone they cared about.

For a time, for a short while, they let themselves forget, and they let themselves drift in one another- and when Dorian’s lust glazed eyes widened and Cullen’s name fell from his lips, Cullen laced his fingers tightly through his, squeezing tight as he followed him over the edge.

______

Dorian didn’t remember drifting off, but he must have fallen asleep curled against Cullen’s side, with his cheek resting on his chest. It couldn’t have been for more than ten minutes or so, the sweat still warm on his skin and the tent still thick with the smell of sex. He smiled sleepily, and lifted his head slightly to nose at Cullen’s jaw.

“Mm, I needed that,” he said. He laughed at Cullen’s expression- dazed and grinning and looking more like a contented kitten than any lion Dorian had ever seen. “And I’m assuming that you did too,” he said, kissing Cullen’s chin with dozy, slow kisses.

Cullen stretched languidly, shivering a little as Dorian lay draped over him with his hand softly stroking in lazy circles on his belly. “I suppose I did,” he confessed, blushing a little at the triumphantly smug look on Dorian’s face. “What? You’re... _very persuasive_ , when you want to be.”

Dorian kissed him, enjoying the feel of his mouth and tongue. He just wanted to kiss him forever, slow and deep and broken by soft laughter. He was sure that he could, that he could kiss Cullen until time stopped and he’d still want to kiss him more.

Maker only knew how long they wasted like that, with lazy kisses and lazier caresses, no particular demand for completion so much as enjoying the slow exploration of one another. When Dorian finally disentangled himself enough to look at him closely, in the soft lantern light, he noticed how tired Cullen looked, how dark the circles under his eyes had grown. He frowned slightly, brushing his knuckles over his cheek and curling his fingers under his jaw.

“Have they been bad?” Dorian asked, keeping his voice as soft as his touch.

Cullen had the good grace to look vaguely bashful; he sighed and ducked his head, nuzzling at Dorian’s cheek. “No worse than normal,” he admitted. “Nothing I’d consider unusual were we safely back in Skyhold, it’s just...”

He sighed. “It’s not been easy with the increased workload, and the stress. I’ll be relieved once this is over and we can go home safely together.” 

Dorian shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling Cullen after him. He pulled him down by the nape of his neck and kissed him; not with any heat or lust or wanton need, but sweetly and softly and tenderly. The weight of him was magnificent, and Dorian slid one of his feet up the back of Cullen’s calf; for the past month Cullen had been struggling on his own, with no one there to hold him in the middle of the night when his nightmares woke him. And when they reached Adamant tomorrow...

Dorian still couldn’t finish the thought.

He couldn’t admit to himself that it might be the last time they would be together.

“It’ll feel like home tonight,” Dorian whispered, a lump in his throat at being able to say that. _Home_. Home with Cullen. He pressed his lips to Cullen’s brow and pulled him closer until his face was tucked against his throat. “I’ll stay with you tonight, and tomorrow-”

He bit his lip for a moment before finishing: “Whatever happens will happen.”

______

“ _Dragon!_ ”

It was all the warning that had before the hideous beast came surging down from the heights, its scream echoing around the broken valley as its claws raked over the top of one of the trebuchets, shredding it like matchsticks without even breaking momentum. From his place on the newly liberated forward battlements, Cullen could only watch in horror as the creature surged upwards again, its path taking it directly towards the Fortress. 

“Incoming!” he yelled, turning and gesturing to the troops on the wall with him. “Take cover!”

The soldiers all scrambled for cover as the dragon plummeted into another dive, and Cullen hurled himself sideways at the last moment, feeling the rush of the air above him as the beast surged past. There was a horrifying crunch as it dove straight through the tops of the battlements, the masonry crumbling beneath the impact, and as Cullen scrambled back to his feet he could only watch in horror as the dragon managed to snare a chunk of stone between its claws, easily bigger than a horse, and hurled it back towards the soldiers in the open field beyond the fortress. 

Even from here, he could feel the impact as it landed, and he cringed and looked away as the bodies fell beneath it. 

There was no time to grieve for them, however- there was a battle to be won, and the fate of Thedas depended on their victory. Climbing back to his feet and smearing the sweat away from his eyes (his hand came away red, and he scowled at it) he gestured sharply along the battlements. “Someone get on those ballista and get them working,” he shouted, pointing down towards the defenses that Hawke’s team had disabled in the first push. “Take that beast down before it does any more damage!”

There were flares of green light towards the central courtyard deeper into the keep, evidence that there was still at least one rift active for the Inquisitor’s strike team to deal with. Dorian was with her, and Cullen was trying desperately not to focus on the ferocity of the battle and how much danger Dorian was in. The Inquisition outnumbered the Wardens ten to one, easily, but the Warden ranks had been swollen with demons and abominations, summoned by the mind controlled mages, and the numbers were far more even with their influence. The choke points were thick with splattered blood and ectoplasm, horrifyingly black and sticky under the same pale moonlit that only a night ago had made Dorian seem like some ethereal creature in his arms.

The dragon roared again, and angled towards the centre of the keep, and Cullen felt his blood surge in panic. 

“Keep the pressure on them!” he roared, lifting his sword arm to imbue courage in the ranks; the answering cheer was less heartening than he would have liked, the soldiers spooked by the appearance of the corrupted dragon.

He couldn’t say he blamed them. 

The fight continued, and his entire body ached; he’d blocked so many blows with his shield that he could feel his shoulders rattling, as if they wanted to rattle right out of their sockets. He kept wiping away the sweat across his brow, and each time he did it was frustrating to see the thick smear of blood instead on the back of his glove. They pressed ever onwards, encountering a few wardens that Namaethelle had clearly granted mercy to, cowering behind boxes and begging to be left alone, and it felt like they might have victory this night as they drew ever closer to the central courtyard, the final retreat of the Wardens. 

He felt it under his feet when it happened- the ominous rumbling shaking, the distant echoing boom that shook the dust free from the stone and caused the entire structure of the fortress to shake. “ _Hold_ ,” he snarled, watching the nearby walls ominously. “Someone with a viewpoint- are we still conducting long range bombardments?”

A nearby scout quickly scaled one of the odd statues, clinging to the misshapen wings as she peered back towards the army. “Negative, Commander,” she called. “Trebuchets are not primed for engagement.”

A nervous murmur ran through their ranks. “Then what _was_ that?” someone whispered, loud enough for Cullen to hear. 

He scowled back towards them all. “Whatever it was, if it’s not friendly, we’ll deal with it. Maintain current course of action!” 

To the south of their position, a giant cloud of dust began to rise in the air, clearly an impact cloud, and he tried not to obsess over what could have caused such an impact. When they burst into the central courtyard at last, they found their forward scouts battling an ever growing swarm of demons, pouring from a breach that still sat suspiciously open. The Inquisitor’s strike team was nowhere to be seen- and neither was Corypheus’ Venatori lackey, and the panic in his veins began to grow. 

“Commander!” One of their soldiers jogged towards him as his men worked to secure the courtyard; she had a fairly horrifying gash from her neck downwards, and it was a wonder she was on her feet at all. “The Herald took after the Warden-Commander, and the magister- the dragon chased after them too.”

“Which way did they go?”

“Towards the watch yards,” she said, gesturing behind her. 

Adamant Fortress had been built abutting the Abyssal Rift, the immense, corrupted chasm that was said to reach all the way to the Deep Roads, and had swarmed with impossibly endless waves of Darkspawn in the years of the Second Blight. It was a horrifying and lonely vigil, and the watch yards were higher platforms built for the wardens and their now extinct griffon allies to observe the evil rising from the infinite depths, and to launch their aerial attacks from. 

It was just large enough for a dragon to land for an attack. 

They found the magister, head blooded and singe marks around the collar of his gaudy robes, blessedly unconscious. Cullen barked out instructions for him to be bound and gagged, not willing to take any chances should the wretch wake up and start spitting spells at them. 

“Commander?” One of his soldiers gestured him towards the edge of the platform. “I’ve found the Warden-Commander.”

Her body was crushed beyond any hope of rescue, puncture wounds that had come from no sword riddling her body and oozing with thick poison. There was a broken staff nearby to her, splintered as badly as her body, and although her eyes were closed she was wheezing faintly, still clinging to life. 

There was no sign of the strike team. 

“ _The inquisitor..._ ”

His head snapped around at the hoarse rattling sound, and he crouched down by the Warden-Commander to hear her better. “Yes?” he asked urgently. “Where is she?”

There were flecks of foaming blood along her lips, and the breath seemed to hiss from her like air from a hose. “She has fallen,” she rasped. “Maker have mercy, I only wanted to...”

She trailed off, and her breathing eased to a stop, and the cold, horrifying truth sank into him. Cullen stood slowly, his body completely hollow, as he turned to face the broken masonry jutting over the edge of the Abyssal Rift.

_She has fallen_. 

The echoing boom, the shuddering sound of an immense impact. The dust cloud. The broken stones...

He didn’t even realize he’d fallen back to his knees until he found himself leaning forward, gasping for air that wouldn’t nourish him anyway.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he whispered hoarsely, the most painful ache he’d ever experienced in his life blooming beneath his ribs. “ _Dorian_.”

______

“ _Dorian_.”

His head whipped around, and he flushed guiltily. He must have been in his own world, running his hand along the rocks- rocks? actual physical rocks?- in amazement. _Feeling_ the Fade was something he couldn’t describe- for the others, it was amazingly terrifying, but they had little basis for comparison. Dorian walked the Fade each and every night when he dreamed, whether consciously or not, and was quite familiar with the ethereal shapes that danced and twisted out of reach, lingering on the edge of his vision. Where shadows stretched unnaturally, dark fingers that reached for him and crawled over him coldly.

But now he was in the Fade, physically _in the Fade_. He could touch and feel and see clearly. He could breathe in and smell something coppery in the air, metallic at the back of his throat, and the magic around him was so raw and tangible he felt like he could simply reach out and scoop up a handful.

It was damn near overwhelming, enough to make him deliriously drunk on it all.

But underneath his staggering excitement, underneath his amazement that he was _physically walking the Fade_ and not dreaming, there was worry. What was happening outside of the Fade, back at Adamant? Where was Cullen, in the midst of that terrible battle? Was he even still alive? Did he know what had happened to them- was he sick with worry and fear over him?

“ _Dorian_.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, shaking himself forcefully. “Sorry, what?”

Namaethelle was closer than she had been, as if she’d taken a single step and crossed the space between them and _Maker_ how much of the laws of physics could be assumed to be true here? “We need to move,” she said, her face pale as she swallowed miserably. “There has to be a way out of here.”

The unspoken ‘ _doesn’t there?_ ’ hung in the air between them, not quite panicked but definitely yearning for encouragement from someone who grasped the immensity of their situation better than her.

He looked over her head to where the others stood, and none of them seemed to be in a much better state than Nama. Hawke and Stroud were hunched with their heads together while they spoke in hushed terms; she had the same sort of giddily drunk expression on her face that summed up how he felt, her staff gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were white. Cole and Cassandra were nearer, almost clinging to Nama’s coat-tails as they shifted uneasily. Cassandra looked grim and tired, her inability to let her eyes settle in any one place the only clue that her control was nothing more than a brittle shell around her panic. Cole, on the other hand...

“Cole,” Dorian said, a little harsher than he’d intended. Cole looked to him frantically, and then like Nama he was at Dorian’s side, without any clear sign that he’d crossed the space between them.

“Wrong,” Cole said, his fingers plucking almost desperately at Dorian’s sleeve as if he thought his hand would pass straight through it. “The air claws like it’s alive. Grasping, grabbing, gripping.” He turned his eyes back to Dorian, leaving them on him as he whispered: “I do not want to be here. _Please_.”

“We’re going,” Dorian said, gentler than before. “Come on.”

It was easier said than done.

The spirit, or demon, or- _whatever it was_ \- that resembled the Divine led them through the Fade, with none of them sure if it, if _she_ , was leading them to their deaths or their salvation. What else was there to do but to trust her? They had no other options.

The hours dragged onwards, without reprieve; piece by broken piece, Nama recovered what had happened at the Conclave when she’d walked in on Corypheus and ruined his plans. And piece by broken piece, they were picked apart by the Nightmare that ruled over this corner of the Fade. 

Dorian should have expected the attacks to be like nothing he had ever experienced before- if the power of the physical Fade made him drunk with energy, then what must it feel like for a creature embedded in the very air itself, immersed in it like a gluttonous, cankerous leech? He had dealt with demons in his dreams, and he had dealt with demons in the bodies of others, and he had dealt with demons who were but a mere fragment of themselves once they escaped across the Veil.

He had never considered what it would be like to face a demon physically in its own territory, and it was terrifying in hindsight how easily it had ensnared them all. 

One moment he’d been striding along beside Cole, whispering gentle encouragements to him as the panic threatened to overwhelm the odd young man; the next moment, he stumbled on a suddenly smooth floor, his legs no longer hindered by knee high water, and the sound of his feet slapping against the cold marble tiles echoed back ominously to him. 

His head snapped up and the jewel in the head of his staff flared, attuned to his moods and responding to the danger. Dorian rolled his shoulders, hoping to ease the slither of dread crawling up his spine; he was in an unfamiliar chamber, stone walls and distant windows out of reach of grasping hands... and enough gore and overturned, shattered furniture to have him reeling back in horror, one hand going up to cover his mouth and nose out of instinct. There was an almost overwhelming stench of rot and decay, enough to make him gag, and the air around him seemed to ripple with malignant energy- he could actually see the warp and twist of the Veil as it seethed and stretched, the reality of the Fade pushing sharply against the reality of the mortal world-

The mortal world? Dorian frowned, eyes narrowed as he took in his surroundings above the fingers that covered his lower face. This was not the mortal world, this was yet more treachery from the Nightmare, layers within layers to trick and trap him. 

There were distant screams, and the occasional rumbling thunder that could have been an explosion and could have been a storm. He shuddered uneasily, eyes peering sharply through the gloom as he lifted his staff, the jeweled head piercing through the gloom. “Hello?” he called, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, in case he needed to move quickly. “Namaethelle? Cassandra?”

Nothing answered back to him, and he swallowed. “Hawke?” he tried again, hoping at least that the other mage in their party would be able to shake off the snare enough to reach out to him. 

A whimper sounded from nearby, and Dorian jerked around in alarm, flames bursting to life on his open palm. “Hello?” he said, stepping lightly across the marbled floor and around the shredded tapestries- an overabundance of dogs, how odd- and dark wood splinters that remained of the furniture. “I must warn you, creature, while your trap is exquisitely well crafted- kudos for that, by the way- I am hardly a simpering wretch to be entranced by your insidious hallucinations.”

The whimper came again, louder this time, and Dorian eased himself carefully up beside one of the open doors in the room, the heavy wood hanging precariously from a single hinge and bearing horrific claw marks. The hallway did not lie straight beyond the door, instead curving, and in the room ahead he could see a flickering purple light, the gore and bloodied pulp piled high around it as it formed some kind of dome. 

Curious, he took a step into the room, his eyes watering as they adjusted to the aching brightness of the magical cage- and the whimper came yet again, a dark shape in the center of the light moving jerkily.

There was a dark caress along his spine, like an ice cube pressed against his skin. “Did you think he could ever love you?” came an almost mournful, sensuous whisper against his ear.

Dorian felt a vice close around his chest as he stared at the figure crouched in the cage- Cullen, but not Cullen. His face was thinner, his armor almost too big on his lanky, youthful frame, and it was dented and scratched and bloodied, puncture holes over his chest as if some great beast had lunged and sunk claws in deep, trying to tear away the protective casing. His hair was a riot of curls, no sense of careful control, and longer than Dorian was used to- but it too was bloodied and matted, caked against his skull with gore. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and his eyes held the vacant stare of someone so lost in pain that their body was in the process of shutting down. 

And he was young, so very young, scarcely more than a boy as he knelt within his prison, his limbs the wrong size for the rest of his body and his face dotted with a few youthful spots and an utterly terrible attempt at some sort of goatee on his chin. In other circumstances, in another time and place, Dorian might have teased him delightedly, so gangly and angular, not as settled in his body as the man Dorian knew and loved. 

But not now. Not here.

“This is Kinloch Hold,” he breathed, a dangerous tremor in his voice as he spoke the words aloud. It was an illusion, it was the Nightmare of course, but... “Cullen?”

The young man in the prison of light flinched violently, recoiling backwards and falling onto his hip, dragging himself backwards on his hands. “Stay away from me, demon!” he screamed, hysteria in his tone, his voice cracking on the final word. His eyes darted around the room wildly, latching onto Dorian and then skittering away without any sign of recognition- and why would he? This was a decade before they were due to meet, and in truth it wasn’t even him. This was merely an illusion, a false memory cobbled together from the horrible fragments Cullen had trusted him with. 

That did not mean it didn’t sink into his heart like a knife. “Cullen,” he tried again, his stomach seething and his eyes burning as he lifted a hand towards the barrier. “It’s alright Cullen, it’s just a dream, it’s not-”

“ _Abomination!_ ” he screeched, his chest heaving and his dry lips splitting open again, blood oozing down his chin. “What demon do you have in you? What lies do you spit? You shall not have me!”

_It’s just a dream_ , he told himself, even as he felt the first tear slide down his cheek. “Amatus,” he said, sinking to his knees beside the barrier. “Cullen, please, it’s going to be alright-”

“ _Liar!_ Kill me or leave me, but do not taunt me with your _lies_ , demon!” Cullen’s hands were clenched tight in his hair, as if he meant to pull it out by the fistful. “Mages, mages, monsters, _monster_ mages, can’t be trusted- _liar!_ ” 

Dorian closed his eyes, the panic and the hate and the pain in Cullen’s voice digging deep between his ribs; the tears on his face kept coming. “ _Cullen_ ,” he begged softly, and behind him came a sibilant, malignant chuckle.

“How could you think he could _ever_ love you?”

Dorian cringed, the words landing and sticking despite his repeated mantra. _Just a dream, just a nightmare, just a dream, just a nightmare_. “I do not take relationship advice from demons,” he said, trying to claw back his easy confidence and push aside the sinking dread. “When was the last time you actually romanced someone? No, never mind, I’d rather not know the horrors that entailed. Too many tentacles for my liking.”

The amused laughter rang around him, enough to have him cringing down into himself, doubled over as if it could assuage the pain in his chest. 

“If you think that grovelling will soften our hearts towards you, wretch, you are sorely mistaken.”

Dorian froze, his eyes snapping open again. Gone was the slick and bloodied marble tiles beneath him, and instead he found himself kneeling on smoothly worn cobblestones; the vaguely clammy air of Kinloch Hold was gone, replaced by the smell of salt and brine and rot and shit, the sort of smell one could only associate with the harbor of a great port city. Indeed, he could hear the faint cries of the gulls, and the distant thud of waves beating against stone, and he winced as his eyes adjusted to the sudden bright of midday after the gloom of the corrupted tower. 

“We are grateful you detained this Tevinter filth,” came this voice again, and Dorian felt his stomach lurch up into his throat at the sound of that voice. With some difficulty he lifted his head, realizing with some surprise that at some point he’d been bound with chains. Standing before him, resplendent in the burnished armor of the Templar Order, was Cullen. 

And just like before, it was not him. Dorian knew that- it’s just a dream, it’s just a nightmare- but that didn’t stop the blood from freezing in his veins as he took in the cold, hateful look in his eyes. He was older than before, but still young- he’d filled out to fit his armor now, his shoulders broad and his jaw square, but there was no softness in him now. He could have been carved from granite, for all the warmth he gave off. 

His eyes were cruel, no sparkle of humor in them, and just as before, not even a flicker of remembrance in him as his gaze lifted from him. 

Dorian shook himself, more details resolving themselves as he focused beyond the shock of seeing Cullen- he knelt in a vast courtyard, ringed with pointless cage bars along the portico and decorated elaborately with statues whose craftsmanship reminded him rather starkly of home. A great granite building rose up before him, sheer and uninviting, and even if he hadn’t visited Kirkwall many years ago in his youth, he would have recognized the infamous Gallows even going from description alone. 

And now Dorian was kneeling before Cullen- _Knight Captain_ Cullen, at that- trying to remind himself that this was a dream and a nightmare and a ploy by a terrible, powerful demon to break him. 

Dorian attempted a roguish smile. “I must say, Cullen, when I asked if you wanted to play Naughty Apostate and Templar Recruit, this wasn’t-”

A gloved hand lashed out and struck him across the cheek, sending his head slamming backwards and a crunching pain ricocheting up from his nose. He let out a shout of surprise, his head ringing violently from the impact, and after the stars cleared from his eyes he spat out a mouthful of blood onto the cobblestones in front of him. 

“Be thankful I don’t have you gagged, abomination,” came the cold voice of the nightmare wearing Cullen’s face. Just a dream, just a nightmare, but _oh Maker_ , the blow hurt like any real slap would, and he couldn’t help but let out a frustrated sob at the surging pulse of pain as the blood ran down his face from his broken nose. 

_Just a dream, just a nightmare-_

“You have my thanks for this, Hawke,” Cullen continued, and Dorian’s eyes snapped open again. “Maker only knows what horrors this wretch would have enacted on the innocents of Kirkwall if you hadn’t encountered it.” 

Hawke stood beside him, and Dorian had to wonder when she’d got there, because he had no memory of her standing there a moment earlier. She stared at him without recognition, her eyes blank and vacant. “What do you intend to do with him?” she asked, her tone monotonous, almost eerily reminiscent of the Tranquil. 

“With him? Hawke, be sensible- mages are not people like you and I.”

Dorian felt the vice around his chest crunch down hard. 

_How could you think he could ever love you?_

“They cannot be trusted, and we cannot treat them with anything but-”

Hawke screamed suddenly, wild and angry and bloodthirsty. Cullen kept speaking as if she hadn’t reacted, as if it were simply some sort of bizarre theater with the lines preplanned. Hawke staggered, as if she’d just dragged herself free of clutching hands, and then her staff was in her hand, the complex carving at the end erupting in a shower of electrical sparks. She swung the glaived end of her staff and embedded it directly in Cullen’s neck, blood spraying outwards in a vivid red arc at the impact... but it did not strike the ground. Cullen screamed, an inhuman sound that made Dorian clutch at his ears and moan, and then Cullen was dissolving into black, slithering mist, a sticky puddle of ectoplasm the only remains of the creature that had worn his skin for the charade. 

Hawke stood above the puddle, breathing heavily from between gritted teeth. There were tears in her eyes, furious and wild, and for a moment Dorian could only stare up at her, frozen, waiting to see whether she was in fact herself, or just another figment of the nightmare. Finally she smeared the tears away from her face with the back of her hand, laughing awkwardly.

“Always did fucking hate that speech of his,” she said, her voice hoarse as she offered Dorian a hand up. “Didn’t want to hear the rest of it all over again. Sorry about that.”

Dorian felt as if he was weightless, as if he had no serious tether on the world any longer. “He can’t have said that,” he said hollowly, the horror and the immensity of it sinking into his skin like hot tar.

Hawke kept her hand over his for a fraction longer than necessary, and something softened in her eyes. “You love him,” she said, not so much a question as a statement. She couldn’t hold his gaze. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry.”

She clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Not sure if this was your nightmare or mine, but the fact that we’re crossing over like this has to mean it’s a strain to keep us all occupied.” She attempted a smile, but she still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Let’s find the others.”

_How could you think he could ever love you?_

______

_Run_ , he thought, and it was all he could think as they dashed through the water and up the stone stairs that led up to the rift. _Run, run, run._

Maker only knew how long they’d been running- it could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could have been days. Stroud had sacrificed himself so that they could run, and yet it seemed like he could not move fast enough, he could not seem to move his legs at all. The rift seemed to move no closer, like the land around him was moving against him to keep him ensnared.

Namaethelle grabbed him, her face still streaked with gore and tears as she pulled him along. Seeing her move, seeing the panic on her face and watching the soundless movement of her lips as she urged them along, the way she broke her silence to scream at them to _hurry_ , broke whatever paralysis had gripped him. He raced after her, gripping Cassandra by her arm when she stumbled, dragging her with him as the rift loomed nearer.

Clearly, deafeningly, he heard Lavellan scream, “ _We’re almost there! Keep moving!_ ” before his eyes were filled with white, sharp light-

\- and he crashed down against hard stone, apparently stumbling at the last minute.

Wildly, Dorian scrabbled at the stone, clawing his way up and onto his knees with a panicked sob on his lips, ready to keep running for the rift...

But the rift was gone.

The _Fade_ was gone.

An Inquisition scout was gripping his shoulders, leaning down close to his face as they crouched beside him. He stared at their mouth, seeing it moving but unable to hear anything above a high pitched ringing in his ears. 

_They’d made it._

Dorian felt tears on his face but he couldn’t even move to wipe them away. All he could do was rasp, “Find Cullen. Please. Get the Commander.” And when no one seemed to move or even to hear him, he screamed, “ _Now!_ ”

______

The dragon had quit the field rather abruptly, and the wardens were surrendering almost faster than they could round them up. They’d taken the magister alive for questioning, and the mind control keeping the warden mages in thrall had been broken. The demons, too, were thinning in numbers, and it was in all a rather triumphant victory on their part.

Except for the small detail that they’d lost the Inquisitor and her team.

And Cullen had lost Dorian.

He felt hollow, empty- he felt like he was made of brittle, broken glass, as if there were a thousand fracture lines running across the surface of his skin and the tiniest impact would have him shattering into a million jagged pieces. He kept fighting, because he had to fight, and he kept shouting instructions, but the man leading the assault on the central courtyard was not him, not really. He watched it all from a distance, through an immense fog, as someone who _seemed_ like Cullen Rutherford wore his skin and shouted with his voice, when in reality he was dying by inches somewhere deep inside of himself.

He’d lost Dorian.

It wasn’t enough that he’d told him he’d loved him- he’d wanted a lifetime to get used to saying it, and to delight in hearing it said back to him. He’d been stupid enough to assume that they’d _get_ that lifetime, oddly convinced of their immortality despite his worries. It just hadn’t seemed possible up until the moment when he’d stood over an abyss that reached to the very heart of the world and realised that his heart had gone over that edge.

He’d wanted a hundred thousand mornings to wake up in his arms, or fall asleep with Dorian curled up on his chest. He’d assumed there would be time enough to take him to meet his siblings and his nieces and nephews, to give him a chance to experience a family that embraced him just as he was. 

He’d dared to dream of a future together, in the vague period that had become After the Inquisition in his mind. A home, and children, and a dog of course. 

Now there was nothing. No Dorian, no future, no _After the Inquisition_...

There was nothing else to do but to push forward, to fight until exhaustion took him. In the familiar motions of a battle, he could lose himself- and forget that he had lost one half of himself to the endless depths of the Abyssal Rift.

He was up on the battlements, not really sure how he’d made it up there, herding the last resisting wardens back towards a dead end; behind him, there was a fizzling surge of electricity, and he felt his hair stand on end for a brief moment. The flash of green light that followed after was unmistakable.

He jerked around, eyes wild as he looked back towards the central courtyard- the rift was _gone_. The only one who had the power to close the rifts was Namaethelle, and she’d gone over the edge of the abyss...

His heart leapt so painfully in his chest that he staggered- if Nama had survived, if Nama was _here_ , then...

... Dorian?

He left the soldiers under his command and sprinted back towards the courtyard; a warden lunged out at him from behind a tower of crates, panicked fury in their eyes. Cullen ploughed straight through them, his shield up as a battering ram- the warden went straight over the edge of the railing, their scream cut short when they hit the ground below.

He stumbled on the stairs, shaking so badly he could barely walk as he staggered into the courtyard, his gaze skipping over Hawke as she argued furiously with the wardens, sliding straight past Namaethelle as she knelt before Cole, crouched on the ground with his arms wrapped around himself, and straight to-

“ _Dorian_ ,” he said, choking on his name, so relieved and so stunned to see him alive that he didn’t have a word in him to describe the maelstrom of emotions in him.

Everything was a blur of motion, the courtyard a riot of activity and movement that strained at his eyes and befuddled his senses further. He had no idea where they’d come from, or how they’d appeared, and were he in a better frame of mind he would probably have insisted upon some sort of security protocol to ensure it really was them, and not some elaborate ruse by an exceptionally powerful demon.

But- _Dorian._

He was all that Cullen could see. Perhaps later, when he was given time to absorb the importance and the gravity and the severity of what had happened, he could sort through everything that he felt; but in that moment, all he felt was a desperation for Dorian, a need so strong he found his feet and moved to where he stood.

The courtyard was immensely crowded, one of the last places where the fighting had held out right to the end; at Namaethelle’s reappearance the Wardens appeared to be throwing down their weapons and backing away, and that should have been all the impetus he needed to start barking orders and having the Wardens disarmed properly, to put an end to the siege once and for all. He moved in a daze, light-headed and hollow as he was bumped and jostled as he moved towards Dorian, and he saw the way his face changed when he saw him heading in his direction. 

Dorian surged to his feet, his expression a mess of desperation and grief, collapsing into his arms with a choked, “ _Amatus_ ,” pressed into his neck.

His eyes and his throat burned, and he knew that he was crying, but he didn’t care. Dorian was alive there with him, and nothing else could ever matter. He was speaking to him, a babbling string of Tevene pressed to his throat between kisses, words that Cullen had no hope of understanding, but there was too much emotion bubbling up in him and all he could do was cling to him and whisper the words that he hoped were an adequate response, peppering his forehead and temples with small, fast, desperate kisses.

There was no way for him to describe the hysterical relief he felt in that moment, with his arms around Dorian so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t crush him. He wanted to ask him what had happened, how he’d survived; he wanted to ask him about the blood and the gore on him, if he was hurt, but Maker take him, he couldn’t have found the words if his very life depended on it. 

He was crying- there was no way around that, no way to ignore the sobs that shook through his shoulders as he clung to him, his face buried in his hair and his hands pressed flat and wide across his back. He nodded frantically in agreement as Dorian continued to panic at him in Tevene, words that he couldn’t hope to understand but whose meaning was abundantly clear regardless. “I know, I know,” he choked, over and over again, a mantra that helped to ground him in the midst of his own panicked disbelief. “I know, Dorian, I know.”

_I thought you were dead._

_I thought you’d gone where I could not follow._

He couldn’t say the words out loud, so instead he hide his face and wept and wrapped himself around him.

At some point- it could have been seconds later and it could have been weeks- gentle fingers began prodding at his hairline, and he winced and jerked away instinctively, a moan bubbling up to his lips. 

“You’re hurt, amatus,” Dorian murmured, his voice raw with emotion. 

Cullen shook his head distractedly, increasingly dizzy as he brushed off Dorian’s prying fingers. “No, no, I’m fine now,” he said determinedly, though his words were a little slurred. “You’re back, I’m fine now.”

Dorian frowned slightly and moved his touch back to his hairline, gently but firmly smoothing his hair back to expose the deep gash along his forehead. It didn’t feel like it was bleeding right now, not with the way Dorian was prodding at it, but it had been quite irksome and distracting for some time now, if he had to be honest. He swayed on his feet, just slightly, his eyes finding it harder and harder to focus, and Dorian’s frown sharpened as he tightened his arms around his middle to keep him upright.

“I would rather not cut out reunion short,” Dorian said, almost curtly. “You need to see a healer, Cullen. Come with me.”

He turned and looked out over the crowd, lifting a hand rather pointedly into the air. “The Commander needs a healer!” he shouted, glancing back towards him. “Fasta vass,” he swore, taking Cullen’s hand and pulling him after him. “What were you thinking, fighting with a head injury? You could have died!”

There were mages amongst the forward strike teams, including a healer or two, and Cullen protested weakly as Dorian dragged him over to one of them. “I have...” He had to what? Things were a little blurrier than he’d like to admit. “Debriefing. I have to secure the- place?”

_You were dead,_ he wanted to cry, _what was I supposed to do when you were dead and I couldn’t save you?_

A hand on his shoulder sat him very firmly down on a crate by the wall, and he blinked heavily as he looked up into Dorian’s angry face. “Why are you...?”

There was something unfathomable in Dorian’s eyes, something that swirled and seethed and turned the stormy grey to quicksilver, as if he were teetering on the edge of some immense emotional chasm and debating which way to fall. He crouched down in front of him slowly, his fingers still tightly entwined with his.

“You could have _died_ ,” Dorian said, his voice harsher than he’d expected from him, and Cullen nearly shrank backwards at the scolding. “And for _what_? A few more dead demons? You’re the fucking _Commander_ of the _Inquisition_ , we need you to-” He broke off abruptly, laughing almost bitterly as he quickly dashed away a tear that had slipped onto his cheek. “Where the fuck are the healers?”

Cullen swallowed miserably. “Dorian...”

“And then what would I have done, hmm? ‘ _Oh, never mind that Dorian fellow, flippant and glib as always, I’m sure he’ll be over it be supper_ ’. I can’t-” His voice broke, fresh tears falling down his face when he blinked. He shifted a little closer, his hands moving to cup Cullen’s face. “I love you,” he said fiercely. “I have to- there are a great many things I still need to talk to you about. And I can’t do that if you wilfully hurl yourself at danger with no regard for your own safety or how your state of being affects the people around you.”

“You were dead,” Cullen finally blurted out, grabbing hold of Dorian’s wrist- ostensibly to keep him close, but also in the hope that it would stop the world from spinning around him so dizzyingly. “You fell into the abyss and I- I wasn’t there to save you. You fell and I _failed_ you.”

The anger on Dorian’s face stilled, the look in his eyes slowly bleeding into frustration more than fury, and the snarl that had turned up the corner of his mouth slowly eased until something a little more hopeless and a little more heartbroken settled there, fragile and bitter and small. His shoulders slumped, as if the fight had gone out of him, and he closed his eyes tight and ducked his head.

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian whispered, as if the word was excruciating to speak. He leaned up and pressed a kiss between his eyes, firmly, like he was stamping his mark upon his skin. “You didn’t fail me. You kept everything here from falling to pieces and you kept fighting because it was the right thing to do. You couldn’t have- there was nothing that you...” Dorian leaned their heads together, quite obviously gritting his teeth as if he was fighting with the words. “You could never fail me, Cullen,” he choked out finally. “No matter what you did.”

He was quite certain at that point that the only reason he was still sitting upright was due to Dorian’s hold on him, and he had the impression that Dorian knew it too. Dorian stayed on his knees before him, his hands cradling his face as he whispered to him endlessly in Tevene, words that could have been a frustrated chastisement or a desperate encouragement or some awkward combination of the two, judging by his tone. When the healers finally arrived and moved between them, prising Dorian away from him to work on the injury, Cullen made a desperate, panicked noise at his absence.

“Andraste’s ass, it’s not going to make a difference if I stay with him,” he heard Dorian snap overhead.

“Head injuries are difficult, my Lord-”

“And he’s going to fret and fight and panic without me, so I’m _going_ to stay.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood, head wounds always bleed profusely-”

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can make this for you without having to assume you are a simpleton- _I am staying here_.” He felt warm fingers slide between his, and an arm loop around his waist, and after that it was rather hard to focus on the specifics of the conversation. None of the words seemed to be in any language he could recognize, foggy sounds that vibrated through his skull and left only pain, not comprehension.

There was so much to do, so many things to attend to- he had to oversee the finally stages of securing the fortress, because Maker only knew how deep the tunnels ran into the cliff-side and how many Wardens or demons lurked below. He had to liaise with all of his captains and lieutenants for casualty lists and damage reports, and take those figures to Namaethelle and order the bodies onto pyres to be burned in the Andrastian way of things. He had to stand as the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces and be the blunt instrument wielded against their enemies. He had to be unwavering, unflappable, a stone standing unmoved by the buffeting gales of a hurricane-

He could feel the tingle of magic fizzing over his skin, near to his forehead, and he looked up to Dorian, to where he held him close, and he wanted to tell him they’d agreed no more magic in the bedroom for now.

Instead he opened his mouth, and his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped forward into Dorian’s waiting arms.


	4. Chapter 4

_Skyhold War Room  
Several weeks later_

The rain drummed steadily against the stained glass windows, the colors in the room ever changing as the storm clouds marched across the sky and blocked out the sun. There was a matching drumming rhythm on the inside of his skull, and Cullen gritted his teeth and leaned heavily on the war table as he did his best to ignore the particular edge to the headache that signaled the onset of bad evening to come. 

Outside the open door to the chamber, he could hear Josephine and Nama chatting away merrily, giggling and whispering conspiratorially, ever more comfortable in their displays of affection since Nama had brazenly tackled an ‘ _upstart shem piece of no-good halla turd_ ’ in the central plaza of Val Royeaux’s market a week earlier. It had cemented what had perhaps been the second worst kept secret in Skyhold after himself and Dorian, and the two women were nigh on inseparable now; certainly their giggles filtering in from the hallway seemed to imply a measure of intimacy that not even the most strenuous burdens of the Inquisition could shake. The two of them chatted and laughed as they walked towards Josephine’s office, as if they hadn’t just spent over an hour arguing to the point of shouting over whether or not the Inquisition should lock horns with the Chantry on the matter of reinstating the circle towers. 

It wasn’t like it was a particularly straight forward ‘ _yes or no_ ’ answer, either- all of them were, in one way or another, in favor of overhauling the current system, but none of them could reach any sort of accord on the matter. Josephine quite sensibly implored moderation on the matter, pointing out the economic ramifications of trying to institute secular circles without the financial backing of the Chantry to support them, whereas Leliana countered that with the reminder that the Chantry had grown rich predominantly off the backs of forced mage labor, _especially_ the Formari, and that asking them to fund the Circles with money that had been amassed by the exploitation of the Circles changed nothing. Nama had grown frustrated at one point and started muttering under her breath in her own tongue, and her response to more than one question directed at her could rather more politely be summed up as ‘ _you bloody shems ruin everything_ ’.

And Cullen... he sighed, more of a shudder as he dropped his head and leaned even more heavily against the table, almost as if he was attempting to push it. He knew what they’d all expected from him, the templar in their ranks- he knew they’d all assumed him to argue for caution and suspicion, and once upon a time that might have been the case, but now?

Now he scarcely knew his own thoughts on the matter, to be honest. He despised the Chantry for the abuses they’d turned a blind eye to, for the monstrosities that they’d not only allowed to flourish unopposed but had nurtured and encouraged- but still he clung to his faith, even if it was a faith without an institution to fall back upon for guidance. He knew there needed to be counter measures in place to defend against mages taken by corruption, but he no longer felt that templars were the answer to that conundrum. He knew there needed to be education, both for mages coming into their powers and for those who would act as their guardians; _Maker_ , the entire _world_ needed better access to education about the uses and dangers of magic, because they could not change things for the better if they continued to promote the same prejudices and blind hatred that had secured the Chantry’s position for so long now. 

As Dorian had said to him many months ago, to be born a mage meant only that one had an obligation to the community to be vigilant. They did not owe their service. They did not owe their time. They did not owe their skills. Just as he was free to set his sword aside and take up a quiet life on a farm somewhere far away from civilization, providing only for himself and whatever family he built for himself, so too were mages deserving of the right to live their life selfishly, in service only to themselves. 

Was there a need for Circles, or some sort of academy or charity house, to train and to educate and share knowledge? To take in those mages who found themselves unwelcome in their own communities or unwilling to risk themselves? Of course, but that did not mean he had an answer about the finer details of budgeting for such an enterprise, or how to implement it wide scale across the continent. Nor could he give any clear idea of how to govern such an undertaking, or at what point he would consider the skills of a templar utterly indispensable. 

He had nothing but vague optimism and childish frustration, uninterested in the minutiae as long as the greater picture could be achieved. 

And what manner of man would he be if he argued in favor of the Circles as they were, but then clung fiercely to Dorian and insisted ‘ _except this man_ ’?

A hypocrite- which, really, meant that nothing had changed in the last five years. He was just as selfish and concerned with his own happiness and survival as always. 

The scar along his hairline throbbed in time with his pulse, an unpleasant counterpoint to the ache of his headaches, and he straightened with a weary sigh, one hand going up to his head while the other slowly collected up the papers in front of him, tucking them back safely in the leather folio for the trip across the courtyard in the rain. Off in the distance, a rumble of thunder echoed over the peaks, and he grimaced; his tower wouldn’t be the most pleasant place to sleep tonight. 

He headed for the door, hoping there were no overly chatty diplomats waiting in Josephine’s antechamber, and no cloyingly insipid nobles in the grand hall hoping to wedge themselves into his good graces with shallow flirting and even more shallow attempts to earn their sons and daughters an officer’s commission in the Inquisition’s forces. 

He could only hope.

______

“Ten gold says it’s mice,” Dorian said as he replaced the newly repaired rune panel on the wall and wiped at his face with the back of his arm.

From somewhere behind him, Dagna snorted in amusement. “Are you trying to lose money? Because I mean. If that’s the case, I’ve got some really great ideas that I couldn’t sell Ambassador Montilyet on, so I _technically_ haven’t secured funding yet since it’s not _technically-_ ” 

“Are you going to take my bet or not?”

“Ancestors, yes! Somewhere warm _and_ damp, particularly with dwarven machinery? It’s got to be deepstalkers.”

Dorian bowed magnanimously to her as she scrambled up the side of the closest empty pool, dusting herself off briskly. “I look forward to taking your money from you, my dear Arcanist,” he said grandly.

She giggled girlishly, her face shining gleefully as she approached the matching rune panel on the other side of the hole in the wall; the mechanism for the pools had been carefully ensconced behind a rather impressive but pockmarked mosaic, and try as they might, they hadn’t been able to find a latch or device to open what they assumed had to be a door. They’d had Gatsi down here to help them safely remove as much of the mosaic as possible, in the hope it could be restored to a much more glorious state in the near future. 

“Ready?” she asked, placing her hand over the panel.

“To be ten gold pieces richer? Absolutely.”

They pushed the panels in unison, and for a moment nothing happened- then the runes flared to life, warm beneath Dorian’s hand, and he stepped back with a triumphant grin on his face. There was a rumbling as the mechanism began to turn, groaning laboriously as ancient cogs unused to the strain began to spin again (although what they all did and how they fit together was beyond him, he was barely more than a tinkerer and certainly not at the point where he could confidently poke at complex machines like this one) and they both lurched backwards at the blast of steam that gushed out of a now open valve.

Dagna clapped delightedly. “It’s working, it’s working!”

“It smells _terrible_.”

“Sulfurous fumes don’t smell great at the best of times, and these have been left to ferment for a _long_ time.”

Dorian waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you sure you cleared the pipes adequately? After this many centuries, the calcification and possible oxidization would have-”

He was interrupted by an immense, gurgling burp noise, and they turned just in time to see a few small holes appear in the walls of the nearest pool, noxious brown water dribbling out of them in fits and spurts. 

He punched a fist into the air before he could stop himself. “Hah! Dorian, one, ancient dwarven technology, zero.”

Dagna elbowed him in the ribs. “You owe me ten gold,” she said pointedly, gesturing to a lump floating in the rapidly filling pool. Glaring at it, he could just make out the vertebrae poking at the dried leathery frame, enough to see it extending into a reptilian tail; he made a disgusted noise. 

“Is that an ‘ _I’m so angry at you right now for winning_ ’ groan or an ‘ _I may vomit if I keep staring at dead lizards_ ’ groan?”

“I’m versatile- I like to think it works for both.” He dropped down to a crouch at the edge of the pool, wincing and holding his hand up to his nose. “Maker, but this smells like day old mabari turds curdled with rotten eggs.”

“... that’s _horrifyingly_ evocative.”

“And this isn’t?” he said, sweeping a hand out to indicate the basin filling with brown, foul smelling liquid.

“This is centuries of build up, and honestly? It could have been a lot worse.” She already had a pair of heavy scale leather gloves on, and bent to stir an almost comically long ladle into the mix. Obviously it had some purpose, but really it just made him think rather unkindly of Ferelden stew. “We’ll leave it running overnight, with the drains open, and hopefully by tomorrow it’ll be running a lot clearer. If I can get the filter valve open I might be able to put something heavy duty into the system to blast it clean- oh now there’s a thought, what if I could apply some kind of superconducting paste through the pipes and then-”

“Are you scheming on how best to blow us all to places beyond the Veil?”

She tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Against my better judgement at leaving you alone to perform devious experiments, I’ll go and let the masses know we’ve had a measure of success,” he said, rising from the crouch. “I’m sure our darling Inquisitor has a few choice ‘ _I told you so_ ’ that she’s been dying to let out.”

“Tell her I said hi!” 

“I’ll do no such thing. I’ll tell her it was entirely me and me alone and you absconded with my research and are trying to steal the love and praise that is rightfully mine.”

“I can hide your body under this sludge and no one will ever find it.”

“I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Her beaming smile followed him out of the cavern.

He came sailing up the stairs and went to turn into Josephine’s office- only to slam directly into Cullen as he walked briskly from the opposite direction. The files Cullen was holding went spilling to the ground in an explosion of paper and maps, and Cullen’s hands came up almost instantly to grab hold of him and steady him so that neither of them went stumbling to the floor or backwards down the stairs.

Which left the two of them standing in a great puddle of paper with their apologies stilling on their lips as they stared at each other. After all, it was just about the closest they’d been in the painfully long weeks since the events in the Western Approach. 

_Did you think he could ever love you?_

For over a month, since their return from Adamant, Dorian had grown increasingly... well, isolated was probably the best word for it. Antagonistic worked equally well. He was, after all, a man who took great pride in himself and what he was, and like any man pushed to the limits, he had a breaking point. 

His father had discovered that when he’d tried to twist his mind against his own objections and desires. 

He hadn’t quite decided yet if Cullen had pushed him to that point too. 

Oh, he was entirely aware of how irrational it was to hold judgement over Cullen’s character for something that a demon had done, but he could not move past Hawke’s reaction to his words. The words the demon had spat from Cullen’s mouth had affected her violently, and she’d explained herself by saying ‘ _not again_ ’. Which, to him, implied that she had in fact had to endure the exact same words from the real Cullen at some point in the past. 

_I’ve done terrible things_ , Cullen had sobbed to him, and he’d soothed him and kissed him and assured him that his attempts at atonement and reparation were proof of his good heart. There was, of course, a huge difference between having some intangible knowledge of Cullen’s past transgressions and having to personally witness them. 

The most obvious solution would simply be to sit down with Cullen and demand frankness from him- but how foolish would that look? _Amatus, darling man of mine, would you care to elaborate on your time as Knight Captain? Don’t spare the details, I wish to know every insult you ever spat about people like me, every act of violence you overlooked or encouraged- humor me, a demon told me I’d find the subject fascinating._

So he’d pushed. At first it had been easy, because the bulk of the army had stayed at Adamant for the better part of a week to ensure the fortress was clear of any lingering demons or ensnared mages, and Namaethelle had been rather eager to veer to the south on a detour towards a labyrinthine oasis swarming with Venatori. Cullen, unconscious for the first two days with his injury anyway, had stayed with the Inquisition forces, and Dorian had traveled south. 

And in the meantime, the words of the Nightmare began to fester under his skin. 

They were like tiny little blades, nicking at his skin from every direction no matter how he spun to defend himself. One by one, an inch at a time, hot and constant and an irritation that grew into an all-consuming ache. 

Logically, of course, he could weigh the situation up with clarity- the demon feasted on fear and anguish, on the deepest and most painful nightmares of its prey, and so that was the poison it had planted in him. They were lies. 

He’d pushed, and it had been easy when they’d been apart, but then when he’d returned to Skyhold... Cullen had been distant as well. They seemed locked in a pattern of circling each other warily, both well aware that something had changed between them but neither of them willing to make the leap of faith to bridge the gap. Again, he knew logically that Cullen had undergone great physical trauma in the battle at Adamant, and that he was under near constant stress, that every moment he didn’t spend in meetings with Nama and the other advisers he spent in council with his lieutenants and captains as they returned from the field. He knew just by looking at him that he hadn’t been sleeping well, or eating regularly, and that the weariness in his eyes was not just a sign of exhaustion but a reminder of the chemical addiction he fought with each step he took. 

_Did you think he could ever love you?_

“Dorian,” Cullen said, surprise in his tone. He didn’t immediately let go of him, and Dorian could see the way instinct almost compelled him to lean in and kiss him, the little flare in his eyes at the sight of him. It was banked as quickly as he spotted it, and the Cullen settled back on his heels, his weight shifting as if he hadn’t just swayed towards him out of habit. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “In Skyhold?” he asked sarcastically, trying to ignore the way his heart had fluttered wildly in his chest when Cullen had leaned in close. 

“Well-” Cullen’s face was red, and he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on him, constantly skittering off nervously to the side. “No, of course not- I just meant. Here. Near to Josephine’s office.”

“What an odd thing to say.” He realised too late that he had his hands resting flat against the smooth metal of Cullen’s chestplate, and it would be so easy to slide them up and around his neck as he leaned into him. He rather pointedly removed them and stepped back a step, and Cullen reluctantly let him go. “And why should I not be near to Josephine’s office?”

Cullen stooped to collect up his scattered papers, and for a moment he was frustratingly silent; Dorian fought the urge to cross his arms and tap his foot impatiently. “Consider it a foolish thing to say, from a fool who can’t keep his own thoughts in order,” Cullen said, straightening again with his arms full of parchment. 

Dorian didn’t know whether he wanted to scold him for the self deprecating comment or kiss him for the apology. He settled for neither. “You certainly looked distracted,” he said instead. “A busy afternoon I take it?”

Cullen’s expression immediately grew shuttered. “An animated discussion, to be sure,” he said, clearly reluctant to elaborate. 

Which immediately meant that Dorian needed to know more. “Oh? Do share, _amatus_ , I hate to think you might be holding out on me.”

The use of the endearment hit a raw nerve, if the way Cullen winced was anything to go by. “We... the council had-” He swallowed nervously. “The discussion this afternoon was about the Inquisition’s decision to shelter the rebel mages and our future involvement in whatever system will replace the Andrastian Circles.” 

“A debate on the future of the southern mages?” he said, raising his eyebrows as something small and petty settled in his stomach. “What a quaint topic of conversation- I assume, of course, that you deferred to the superior knowledge of Grand Enchanter Fiona, or our own dear Vivienne, given that I was not invited.”

Cullen looked pained. “Dorian...”

“No? No mages in attendance at _all_?” He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “How delightful to have such sterling confirmation of the low regard you southerners have for the safety and opinions of people like me. But, oh wait- we are not _quite_ people, are we?”

Cullen froze, the irritated look on his face melting away to outright horror. To his credit, he did not hide his dismay, or try to deny it. “Who told you about that?” he asked quietly.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Let’s just say, for now, that it came to me in a dream.”

“Was it Varric? Or Hawke- it was Hawke, wasn’t it?”

“Does it _matter?_ ” Dorian said sharply, his voice rising before he pulled his temper under control again. 

Cullen’s jaw worked as if he was swallowing back a colorful diatribe. “I would have preferred for such a... revelation to have come from myself.”

“And when would that have been, Cullen? In a month? In a year? In a decade when there are marriage vows and children to complicate the matter?”

It was the first time either of them had said anything definitive about the future, any sort of acknowledgement that there was a very real yearning for more, for a tomorrow they could face together. It hurt more than he could describe for it to appear in a moment like this. 

And from the flash of anguish in Cullen’s eyes, he was not alone. “You will have nothing but my full attention and my most ardent apologies, Dorian,” he said in a low voice, stepping close and gripping him firmly by the arm, “but I will _not_ have this conversation with you in public.”

Dorian lifted his chin high. “Then by all means, _Commander_ , lead the way.”

They stared at each other for a few agonizing moments, and Dorian had to wonder if he’d ever felt such raw, hollow pain in his soul as he did right now. Cullen’s gaze flicked to his mouth for the barest fraction of a second, and then the moment passed, both of them cold and prickly towards one another. 

Cullen’s nostrils flared briefly as he breathed out, his lips thinned with frustration. “Come with me,” he said quietly, keeping his grip on Dorian’s arm as he all but frogmarched him out into the grand hall.

“I believe I’m quite capable of walking under my own strength,” he murmured, trying subtly to pull his arm away without causing a scene. Cullen seemed to have other thoughts on the matter, his fingers tightening until Dorian had to grit his teeth not to snap at him. 

They walked in silence through the hall, diverting through the rotunda that Solas had claimed as his own, the smell of paint thick in the air as the outline of a new fresco sat waiting for the elf’s patient hand. Solas was thankfully nowhere to be seen, and Dorian did not have to snap something about minding one’s own business at whatever pointed quip would have been aimed at the two of them. Likewise, the overpass to Cullen’s tower was unoccupied, no soldiers making use of the shortcut, and fat raindrops splattered heavily against them as they hurried across, not enough so that they were drenched by the time Cullen pushed open the door, but forceful enough that they felt like pebbles hurled at his back

_The pariah being stoned from the city gates_ , he mused, morbidly amused by himself. 

Cullen let go of him the moment the door closed behind them, a stark counterpoint to most of their interactions when Cullen was very careful about not being too affectionate in public, but all but leapt on him like a housebound pup in private. Dorian rolled his shoulders, his arm burning where Cullen had held him; he wanted to touch it, put his fingers up to the skin and feel whether the heat he felt was just in his mind or whether Cullen’s hand had branded him. It gave him a moment of perverse thrill, thinking about being marked by Cullen, claimed for all to see. 

But Cullen had his back to him, leaning heavily on his desk, and the line of his shoulders was not conducive to intimacy. Dorian was isolated, and frustrated, and more than that he was _lonely_. He was tormented by a voice that just refused to let him be and repressed by his own damnable pride from just asking Cullen for clarification. 

Ignoring the voice at the back of his head that told him it was a mistake, and instead focusing only on the one that clamored for independence and pride in his talents, Dorian stood his ground. If he hesitated, that would be the end of it, and he knew it; he would apologize for his flippancy and soothe Cullen’s concerns with false sympathy and excuse himself and whatever this space was between them would only grow wider and colder. And so, with his hands and knees and heart trembling, Dorian demanded: “Tell me you love me.”

The rumble of thunder that came after his dramatic request seemed almost too perfectly timed to be a natural occurrence, and for a moment Dorian had to stop and consider whether he had, in fact, lost his control and disrupted the energy in the storm enough to cause the thunder. It wouldn’t be the most childish thing he’d ever done, to be honest. As it was, he stared at Cullen’s back, willing him to turn around, not sure whether he wanted him to turn and fall to his knees and beg his forgiveness or whether he wanted him to turn and argue.

There was energy pushing uncomfortably at his skin, eager for an outlet. An argument, a fight, a tantrum... sex, even. Biting and shoving and swearing and grunting, forceful enough to bruise and draw blood when teeth sunk in too deep. 

He shivered, and bit the inside of his cheek, waiting. 

“Really?” Cullen’s tone as he turned towards him was teetering somewhere between weary disbelief and frustration. “We’re going to start with that? Of _course_ I love you, Dorian- is that tone entirely necessary? What happened to ‘ _hello, I’m sorry we’ve barely spoken for weeks_ ’ or some other basic civility?”

For some _strange_ reason, hearing the words ‘ _of course I love you_ ’ in such an incredulous, vaguely patronizing tone, did not particularly soothe the uneasiness in his heart.

“I wasn’t sure we still believed in basic civility,” Dorian snapped. “After all, I’m not exactly a _person_ , am I? I can’t really be held to the same standards of decency like the rest of you good and morally righteous Andrastians, can I?”

Cullen had to know the barb was coming, given that Dorian had already it let slip once, but the guilt-ridden way his gaze flitted away and he _flinched_ back against the desk, his shoulders hunching as if he wanted to curl in on himself... it was almost enough to make him feel like a wretch for bringing it up at all.

Almost.

“Am I allowed to ask who it was that told you about... that?” Cullen asked quietly, staring quite pointedly at the floor between them. 

Dorian waved a hand irritably, as if swatting at a fly in front of his face. “Is that relevant at all? I think the more pertinent issue at hand is that I had to hear it from someone other than yourself in the first place. Oh, and I am remarkably curious as to what your own stance could possibly have been in this afternoon’s debate on- what did you say it was? The freedoms of the southern mages, was it? I am fascinated to know what your suggestions could have entailed- prison? Forced labor?” He snapped his fingers as if inspiration had struck him. “Oh, perhaps a menagerie! Since we mages are not, in fact, people, perhaps it would be better to kept in a zoo like other beasts and exotic creatures.” 

His head ached and his heart was beating too hard and fast. He felt the beat of it in his eyes and at his temples. Dorian knew that he was adding fuel to what could become a wildfire, but in his despair, in his surety that Cullen had never, _would never_ love him, it was easy to let go of all sense of caution.

Cullen sighed softly, eyes fluttering shut; he looked as if he’d aged a dozen years in the space of a few heartbeats. “I _told_ you I had done terrible things-”

Dorian felt his temper spike. “And there’s a _significant difference_ between vague allusions to past misdemeanors and openly admitting that you considered people like me to be sub-human!”

“And how was I _supposed_ to tell you, Dorian?”

He was stalking across the space before he could think better of it, crowding into Cullen’s space and forcing him to look up to face him as he buried one hand in the fur of his cloak. “You could have started by _trusting_ that I was enough of an adult to be able to handle unpleasant news,” he snarled, leaning in close to his face. “You could have trusted that my feelings for you and my investment in our relationship was strong enough to weather whatever mistakes you had made in your past, and you-” He bit his tongue, cutting off the tirade before it could grow. “Vishante kaffas, did you ever stop to think about me at all?”

“You’re angry at me for being frightened? For being terrified that the first good thing to happen to me in my entire life could be snatched away from me because of the stupid things I did as an angry young man recovering from torture?”

“Say it to me now.”

His face blanched. “Dorian-”

“ _Say it!_ ”

Cullen closed his eyes, stark misery written across his features. “Mages are not people like you and I.”

Dorian didn’t want it to hurt, but _Maker_ it did. The pounding in his head intensified; the air was so electric, so volatile, that he knew he shouldn’t do anything to make it any worse. But he was hurting, and angry, and he couldn’t think straight with his heart beating so hard and that cold, awful voice whispering at the back of his mind. “Tell me why you said it.” When Cullen remained stubbornly tight-lipped, he shook him. “Tell me!”

“I’m not going to justify it, Dorian,” Cullen said, his voice hoarse. “It was a terrible thing to say, and nothing I could say could ever explain it.”

“So I don’t deserve an explanation?” Tears brimmed in his eyes, stinging harshly, but he blinked them back.

“I didn’t say-”

“Exactly- you didn’t say anything. You would rather sit and lick at your wounded pride in solitude than treat me like your equal and trust me not to flinch at something painful.”

“Perhaps I was terrified that you would react exactly as you are now- avoiding me for weeks at a time and sidestepping any chance that we might spend too much time together and then turning on me without warning, without giving me a chance to defend myself?”

“I just-” His voice wobbled for a moment, surprising him; he cleared his throat and tried again. “I just _asked_ you to defend yourself, and you refused.” 

Cullen was almost painfully pale, and Dorian could see now the way he gripped hard to the edge of the desk with shaking hands, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m not going to do something that will hurt you,” he attempted, and even though he had his eyes tight shut, a single tear ran down his cheek. 

“You’ve already hurt me, Cullen.” 

“What, so I should just consider that my free pass to inflict as much hurt and cruelty on you as possible?” Cullen said, half shouting as he opened his eyes and dug his fingers into Dorian’s hips. “Is that what you think of me? If I _wanted_ to push you away, I’m sure I could think of something more creative- maybe I could point out how many times I oversaw the Rite of Tranquility in the Gallows, or how many mages killed themselves while I was Captain there? Is that what you _want_ , Dorian? Or does it make it easier for you?"

There were tears running down his cheeks, his eyes red and exhausted. “I’m nothing more than a monster, a corrupt tyrant beyond redemption. You should consider yourself lucky I even think of you as _human_ , given that mages took everything soft from me in the first place!” He took a great heaving breath, trembling wildly. “There you go- was that what you wanted to hear? Was that villainous enough for you to hate me without guilt?” 

“I don’t hate you, Cullen-”

“Well you _should!_ ” he snarled, all but looming over him. 

Dorian had never been one to let fear master him; he wasn’t about to start now. “Venhedis, you frustrating, _arrogant_ man!” he shouted, shoving back at him until Cullen’s thighs were pushed up against the desk. “Don’t _tell_ me how I’m supposed to feel! Don’t tell me half truths and decide for me what I deserve to know and how I should react! I am your equal in all things, Cullen, or I am _nothing!_ ”

Cullen clearly hadn’t been expecting him to lash out in anger, and he stared at him with a stunned expression on his face while the tears glistened on his cheeks. Finally he looked away, unable to hold his gaze anymore. “You deserve better than a broken man,” he began again, the same old tired mantra, and something in Dorian snapped. 

“I _deserve_ to have what I _want_ ,” he said sharply, stabbing his finger at the center of Cullen’s chest, “and what I want is for the man I love to treat me like a sensible adult capable of reaching my own rational conclusions when trusted with horrifying personal information. What I want is for the man I love to treat me like his fucking equal and stop it with the fucking brooding anti-hero routine.”

“I don’t- I don’t understand, why would you want me to hurt you? I don’t understand what else you want from me, when I’ve fought for you and defended you by word and by deed, and when I’ve done my best to discard a lifetime of indoctrination to treat you with the respect you deserve.”

“ _You are already hurting me_ ,” Dorian said pointedly, over-stressing each syllable as if that would drill the message through the daft man’s head. “Lying to me and withholding things from me and presuming that you know what is best for me, and you’re worried about how I’ll react to things you did a decade ago? I would have hoped you knew me better than that, but I can see I was wrong.”

Silence stretched between them, vacuous and horrible and overwhelming. It was nearly tangible, heavy and cold on his skin as if there was a despair demon lurking in the air above them, and Dorian ran his hands over his arms to smooth away his goosebumps as he took a step back from Cullen’s warmth.

“Dorian...”

“I’m sorry, Cullen,” he said bluntly, because blunt was easier, blunt gave him some measure of distance from the horrifying, painful intimacy of the war going on in his heart. “But I’m a bit too angry right now.”

Cullen was silent for a few agonizing moments, and then in the smallest voice possible said “I’m sorry too.”

Dorian nodded jerkily, an acknowledgement of his words, and then spun on his heel and stalked towards the door. It was still raining outside, fat and heavy, and as he made his way across the causeway to the central hall, it was easy enough to tell himself that it was only rain on his face instead of tears.


	5. Chapter 5

_The Emerald Graves  
Several days later_

“You’ve been subdued ever since we left Skyhold, Sparkler,” Varric said, falling in beside Dorian as they followed Nama through the ever twisting paths of the ancient forest. “You’ve walked straight into at least three puns without blinking, and an hour ago Tiny made a perfect opening for an inappropriate joke about proper staff usage and you just kept walking without so much as a backward glance. Something on your mind?”

Dorian glanced sideways at him, keeping his expression neutral only by sheer force of will. He appreciated the fact that Varric had tactfully sidestepped the obvious by asking about some _thing_ rather than some _one_ , but he wasn’t in the mood to deal with any pitying expressions of sympathy.

He wasn’t fond of being pitied.

“It’s nothing,” Dorian said. He swatted at a mosquito that buzzed around his head. “Just this blighted forest-”

“I heard that, Master Pavus,” Namaethelle yelled from up ahead. “Are you making unkind aspersions about my ancestral homeland?”

“Mistress Lavellan, you should put your supernaturally talented ears to use by listening out for ambushes instead of eavesdropping,” he yelled back. Grumbling under his breath, he muttered to Varric “I swear I’ve more bites on me than that summer I spent in Antiva City. And the men there do love to nibble.”

He smiled charmingly, but there was little humor in his eyes. There hadn’t been anything worth smiling about since he’d walked out on Cullen days earlier. What should he have to smile about?

“Right, right, nibbly men, great stuff... or, shit, I don’t know.” Varric cleared his throat, his expression vaguely discomforted. “Look, kid, as far as I’m concerned, as long as that stuff doesn’t get any closer to me than my crappy stories, everything’s just peachy by me.”

He hesitated, then waved his hand flippantly. “Not the nibbly men, so much- you do you- but just all of the... physical stuff in general. Not a fan, personally.”

“You don’t say,” Dorian said dryly, as if that wasn’t the most obvious revelation in the world.

“But,” Varric continued, pointing firmly at Dorian, “ _you_ certainly seem to be a fan, and you had us all convinced that you and Curly were onto something together. Got anything you need to get off your chest with your friendly neighborhood dwarf?” 

Dorian almost snapped that it was none of his business what went on between himself and the Commander, and he didn’t want to give him more fodder for one of his little stories. The last thing he wanted to be was someone else’s character development.

But there honestly wasn’t much fight left in him. Every bit of his anger had been spent, and he was left a little hollow and cold. What he wanted was to distance himself from Skyhold and Cullen and the whispers of the demon from the Fade and all of the empty spaces in his heart and the cold stone of his lonely bedroom. “I thought we were,” Dorian said flatly. “But there were... sometimes things don’t work out the way we want them to, the way that we-”

He thought of how Cullen had kissed him their first night together, his lips and fingers trembling with cold and desire. He thought of how he’d come to him after the tumultuous meeting with his father, of how he’d said he loved him even after seeing him raw and broken and hurting.

And he thought of him standing near the abyss, hurt and bleeding and exhausted but still standing and fighting, still soldiering on, but something vital torn from him, his heart broken and his soul empty.

His eyes pricked with tears, and he swore under his breath as he wiped at them angrily. “Fasta vass,” Dorian said. “Damned pollen in this forest.”

Varric very kindly did not dispute his pathetic lie. 

He laughed awkwardly, bitterly. “I don’t know, maybe I don’t know how to love at all,” he said, waving his hand flippantly. “It’s not like I was exposed to a great excess of it in my hedonistic youth, so how can I be expected to emulate something I have so little experience with?”

But he didn’t think that was the truth, not really. He loved Cullen, more than anything, so much so that it hurt him to be apart from the blighted fool, but he didn’t know how to reach him.

Or if he even could, after all the harsh words shared between them.

Varric was silent for a few long moments- up ahead of them, Nama and Bull were engaged in some kind of ribald debate, laughing uproariously and completely oblivious to the more somber conversation going on behind them. 

Finally, the dwarf sighed, rubbing at his face. “You know, it doesn’t tend to come up a lot- most people tend not to put two and two together- but I’ve known Curly for coming up on ten years now.” He chuckled softly. “You’d barely even recognize him now, compared to what he was back then. He was a scared, angry kid, who’d only just worked out that being nice to the bullies on the playground doesn’t really do a lot for you in the long run. A real mess, he was.”

He glanced sideways at him, a carefully assessing gleam in his eyes. “The very first day I met him, Curly damn near had a nervous breakdown when Hawke blurted out that his little recruits had fallen foul of a sect of Tevinter blood mages, and had been implanted with demons like the worst kind of paternity case gone wrong. White faced, clammy, stuttering worse than an Orlesian dandy on his wedding night-”

“ _Varric_.”

“I’m getting there, Sparkler, you gotta give me time to build up the drama.” He shook his head. “Anyway, it was... an inauspicious first meeting. Curly barely seemed old enough to be out on his own, but there he was, holding the biggest sword he could find in the hope that the bigger the sword, the better chance he had of being the big damn hero and beating off the big scary mages. Fast forward ten years, and that scared kid turned out to be one of the most selfless bastards in a city full of assholes- wasn’t afraid to stand with Hawke, even knowing it might get him killed, stayed and helped establish some kind of order in Kirkwall when so many other templars turned tail and ran. Shit, he even helped Sunshine smuggle the surviving mages out of the city, so she could-”

“Sunshine?”

“Ah, shit- Bethany. Hawke’s little sister. She gathered up any mages she could and carted them off somewhere secret, away from the war. And Curly helped her, didn’t even question her plans beyond wanting to know if they needed protection to get where they were headed. He didn’t question the Herald when she brought all the mages into her skirts like little ducklings, and then somehow...” He looked slyly at Dorian. “Somehow, someone got him smiling in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen- someone’s got him _happy_ in a way I didn’t think was actually physically possible for him.” 

Maker, how he wished he could have seen that instead of the horrors the Nightmare had shown him; it was ridiculously easy for Dorian to imagine Cullen as young and afraid and filled with anger and hurt and terror but doing the right thing, in spite of that. How he wished he could have seen it, though. Dorian had never doubted that he was a good man, that he would do whatever he could to protect others, even at the expense of his own safety and comfort.

Cullen’s selflessness did not come from being a templar. When he had left the Order, his good heart had left with him, blossoming to new life outside of the brutal regime he’d been subjected to. He’d lifted his shield without hesitation, emblazoned with a new coat of arms, and protected those that couldn’t protect themselves.

But still-

“Things are...” _Complicated_ , he meant to say, but when weren’t they? Battling an ancient Magister, a breach in the sky spitting out demons, Venatori and red templars and all manner of _complicated_ things.

What had never been complicated was how he loved him, or how Cullen made him feel. It had been refreshingly uncomplicated, in fact. The only thing in their lives that had made any sense amidst all this madness.

“... he needs better than me,” Dorian finished, awkwardly, keeping his eyes from Varric as he tried not to think of how hypocritical it was to adopt the very same mantra he’d scolded Cullen for using.

Varric sighed. “Look Sparkler, Hawke told me all about what that ugly ass critter said in the Fade, all that bullcrap it was spouting trying to get under your skin- you’re not really meaning to tell me that the _great_ Lord Dorian Pavus, Altus extraordinaire and wooer of blushing Inquisition commanders, took the words of a _demon_ to heart?” When Dorian didn’t answer immediately, gritting his teeth as his face flushed red with embarrassment, Varric whistled softly. “ _Shit_ , Sparkler, you’re really gonna take the word of something calling itself _The_ Nightmare over whatever smoochy kissy crap Curly giggles into your ear late at night, are you? I thought they raised them to be a little more savvy about demons, up north, but I guess not.”

His words were like a cold splash of water, a sharp slap to the face. Dorian could only assume that was exactly what Varric wanted. As a writer, he sometimes enjoyed his fancy, evasive language- but there wasn’t much that got his point across better than being direct and painfully blunt, like a verbal punch to the gut.

When he tried to speak, no sound would come. He couldn’t seem to get his words out of his throat, or form them in his brain well enough to put them on his tongue. He thought to argue that he was doing what was best for Cullen as well as himself- better to spare both of them from a more painful split further down the road, after all. But how could he know that things wouldn’t work out between them? They had worked perfectly so far. Perhaps a little bit of bumpiness- the entire world being at war with a monstrous darkspawn would create a little of a rough ride, after all- but nothing that they couldn’t weather together.

All he had to do was take a chance.

_Did you think he could ever love you?_

The voice was smaller now, more distant, an echo of an echo.

“Kaffas,” Dorian swore, glaring at him. “You’re such a shit. Do I even want to know what makes a dwarf such an expert on demons all of a sudden?”

“Have you even _met_ Hawke? You were there, right- in the Fade with her? That girl had a knack for finding more demons per capita than any sane human being has a right to; I lost track of the number of times she dragged me off to go barter and argue with some wily demon too big for its boots.” He chuckled fondly. “Wasn’t even her first Fade adventure, either, but the last time she dragged me along and I _was_ dumb enough to listen to a demon, and I did something pretty spectacularly stupid as a result. And you know what I learned?”

When Dorian didn’t answer, he continued. “I _learned_ that sometimes you have to swallow your pride, and admit you had a moment of weakness, and trust that the person who means the most to you has the wisdom to know you were being a jackass but you want to do better, and the kindness to help you up so you _can_ be better.” 

Cullen had come to him when it would have been easier to let him go. When everyone else had been content enough to abandon him, Cullen had stood beside him and loved him and helped him find his feet and his purpose and his courage.

He could still feel the warmth of his arms around him, the feel of his breath on the back of his neck as he told him how much he loved him, that he was there with him.

That he always would be.

“I...” Dorian bit his lip and swallowed miserably, suddenly feeling like he was only two inches tall. “Don’t be smug,” he finished softly, when Varric smirked and looked at him like he was the biggest dolt he’d ever seen. “No one likes a know-it-all.”

______

_Skyhold  
The very same day_

He snarled and threw his entire weight into the swing, connecting with enough force to lop off a limb without losing speed. The impact shuddered up his arm to his shoulder, making him grit his teeth as his already exhausted muscles screamed for reprieve- but that was something he could not allow. He had to keep fighting, had to push onwards, had to hack and chop and lunge until exhaustion claimed him-

\- because how _else_ was he supposed to go to sleep at night, if it wasn’t unconsciousness brought on by pushing his body to the most painful limit imaginable? The alternative was yet another sleepless night lying awake with the headaches and the shivers, not quite sure if it was another round of lyrium withdrawals or whether it was the aftermath of the utterly excruciating emotional crash he’d experienced when he’d let Dorian walk out of his rooms in tears. 

What kind of stubborn, sadistic bastard was he, that he couldn’t even set aside his own pride for two minutes just to soothe Dorian’s fears and ask him how he could possibly fix the pain he had caused with his stupidity? What kind of thoughtless monster let the person they cared about more than anything in life run away in pain, pain that he was responsible for?

And now Dorian wasn’t even here, spirited away on some reconnaissance mission in eastern Orlais- honestly, he was amazed he’d managed to retain that much information, given how much of a blur the last few days were- and he couldn’t go to him and beg his forgiveness and promise that even if he didn’t understand how he was supposed to even begin to atone for the things he’d done, that he'd still do everything in his power to fix it, anything that Dorian asked of him. And what if Dorian died, what if he died somewhere out in the wilds without Cullen finding the time to apologize, and what if his last thoughts of him were nothing more than pain and regret and hurt and betrayal, and-

He shouted furiously and swung his sword around in an overpowered arc; there was a huge crunch as the weapon cleaved straight through the straw stuffed dummy and into the wooden frame, the whole thing snapping in half like a dry twig in summer and toppling slowly to the ground as the straw spilled out onto the training yard like a gutted beast.

Panting, he reached up and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his face red from more than just exertion when he realized how deathly silent the yard around him was. He scowled as he turned to find several dozen eyes aimed warily at him, soldiers and scouts and even a few mages staring. “Get back to work,” he snarled, stabbing his sword into the ground to emphasize his point. "Shield wall compact, tetsudo formation, _now_ \- I don't want to see a single sliver of sunlight getting through, and not a wisp of magic.”

From the top of the barracks, several storeys above where Cullen was taking out his petty mood on the unsuspecting recruits, Cassandra threw her pen down on her table in frustration, ink splattering over the loose sheets of parchment before her. Shouting from the courtyard wasn’t all that uncommon- honestly, if a day went by where she didn’t have to break up a sparring session turned heated or a mage and templar squabble as they mingled outside of their respective towers, that would have been more surprising.

But hearing Cullen shout so vehemently was startling, to say the least. That was not to say that Cullen was not prone to raising his voice if the situation called for it, but the snarled edge to his words was certainly new and worrisome to hear. He had always been composed and reasonable, issuing his commands and instructions with the firm voice of a man who expected to be obeyed; shouted orders were understandable, but the hint of threat under his words was not.

Pushing back from the desk with a muttered curse- because of _course_ he had to choose right when she was nearing the end of her reports into the events at Adamant Fortress to take leave of his senses- Cassandra stomped down the stairs, scowling at the gawkers she caught leaning out of the windows on the second floor to get a better view of the spectacle. They rather wisely choose to move away from the view.

She stomped out into the courtyard and found Cullen panting over a broken training dummy, apparently oblivious to the half-hearted effort his troops were putting in to their training routine; the bulk of the group skittered backwards as she passed by them, making a sterling effort to pretend they were training even as they quite obviously tried to eavesdrop. Cassandra stopped and stared at them all quite pointedly, until the message sunk in and they resumed their practice with reluctance.

Cullen was a right mess- sweat soaked and red faced, she winced at the wild lunges and uncontrolled hacking slashes he aimed at the remains of the dummy. He still swung at the splintered base, his sword chopping bluntly at the wood as he further dulled the abused weapon for the sake of his tantrum.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “ _Commander_ ,” Cassandra said, loud enough to spark the interest of the soldiers around them who were still pretending eagerly not to be listening in. Loud enough to, perhaps, fill him with some measure of self awareness to the scene he was causing. “I believe you have adequately demonstrated your expertise and might to any who would question it. Perhaps you would like to join me for some water, to give Captain Mahrain time to clear away the wreckage?” When he didn’t respond, only half turned towards her with his sword still drawn, Cassandra raised a brow and said, “ _Now?_ ”

He scowled at her, ducking his head, but it was not enough for him to hide the flush of red to his cheeks. With the way he frowned, she could tell he was hoping she’d assume the redness was nothing more than body heat from the exercise. 

He knew when he’d been dressed down in public, however indirectly. 

“By all means,” he snapped, the words short and clipped as he sheathed his sword almost carelessly and rubbed at the back of his neck, all of his muscles screaming at him in unison now that he’d stopped moving. “Please, lead the way, Seeker.”

She didn’t deserve his temper tantrum- Cassandra was a good friend, better than he deserved, but _Maker_ if he wasn’t sick of his own company and desperate to lash out at something other than his own tattered self esteem. He knew he sounded sullen, and he knew he deserved only to be dragged off by his ear like a misbehaving child, but self awareness didn’t necessarily translate into action. 

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him, and then gestured for him to follow, falling into step beside him as if they were just taking a casual turn about the grounds as friends; she shot an icy look at the soldiers staring at them as she led Cullen to a shaded corner of the yard by the ramparts where they had more privacy. She left him to stew for a bit as she fetched water from the well, letting him wallow in whatever juvenile emotion he was attempting badly to repress before marching back over to him with a pair of tin mugs in hand.

He was stubborn about it- she could see the glint of it in his eye, the clench of his jaw that made him pointedly hesitate to reach for the proffered mug. She stopped short of pushing it into his foolish hand, but she did not relent either, standing before him with the mug held out while she watched him over the rim over her own drink. 

In the end, Cullen’s thirst won out. He all but snatched it from her with a scowl, lifting the mug to his lips and draining the water in three gulps.

He looked terrible. Obviously he hadn’t been sleeping well, judging by the dark circles under his eyes, and she knew he hadn’t been taking regular meals, either in the dining hall or having food taken to his quarters. If not for the fact that she knew that he and Dorian had had a falling out, she would have been concerned his withdrawals were finally getting the best of him.

“Commander,” she began, and then corrected herself. “Cullen. I consider myself honored to be someone you trust- and I hope you know I extend the selfsame trust to you.”

There was a flicker of emotion in his eyes- guilt perhaps- and then he was staring into the empty mug again, unresponsive. 

She fought the urge to sigh. “You trusted me to judge when you were losing your edge,” Cassandra said. “When your work for the Inquisition was no longer your first priority, or you were no longer able to comfortably physically serve, you asked me to intervene and make the decision you could not.” When Cullen said nothing, Cassandra went a little deeper. She cut to the bone. “When you first started bedding him, I thought it was a mistake- my instincts told me that he would only prove to be a distraction for you. But, against my expectations, he seemed to make you happy, and I found myself surprised by how little supervision you required despite your own skepticism in yourself.”

She gestured to him irritably. “And now I find you in this sorry state. What am I supposed to think of it all?"

He winced, his grip tightening on the tin cup in his hand as he looked away, the shame hot and sour in his stomach. “I wasn’t under the impression my dedication to my duties had become a point of concern,” he said gruffly, trying to mask the tremor in his voice as merely annoyance. “Do you have any specific criticisms I should take on board, or is this just a slap on the wrist since you apparently disapprove of how I conduct myself in private?”

“In private?” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking pointedly around the yard. “You and I have a remarkably different definition of private, Cullen.”

He glanced over towards where Mahrain was clearing away the splintered remains of the training dummy he’d shredded in his tantrum. “I... cannot actually dispute that.”

“That is perhaps the most sensible thing to come out of your mouth in some time,” she said, her lips twitching with the hint of a smile. “For the past few months I have seen you happy- something that I was fairly certain you were determined to deny yourself. And now...”

Cassandra kept her voice cool, clipped, a little harsh; her hand rested over his, and when he looked at her, her eyes weren’t as hard as her tone. “You told me you would never give less to this Inquisition than you did to the Chantry, and I believed you, because you are an honorable man, and you have always given more than was asked of you. But what you have built with Dorian...”

She stopped, clearly undecided as to how far to push him, and Cullen felt the world around them go still. He couldn’t quite say why he needed someone to say the words to him, why he wanted her to lay it out plain for him, but he did, _desperately_. He was tired of obsessively circling around himself in his head, of berating himself endlessly with the same tired, cruel arguments. Even if she intended to cut his legs out from under him- in a metaphorical sense, of course- better that than to be caught in this cycle of self flagellation. 

Otherwise he would keep his head down and he would soldier on alone and it would be the death of him.

“As heretical as it may seem to consider, there are things more important than this Inquisition,” Cassandra said. “And you are more than a Commander, Cullen. You are a man, with very human needs and fears, and if we let go of everything that made us human in order to rebuild the world, it would be a very cold world indeed.”

Cullen scowled, in the hope it would hide the way his eyes burned with the onset of tears. “I do not need someone in my bed at night in order to be considered human, Cassandra, least of all to do my job.”

“I did not say that,” she chided him gently. “I am simply pointing out that you do not need to deny yourself the things you desire out of some misguided attempt to make yourself into a better leader.” She squeezed his hand. “You love him, Cullen- Andraste help you, but you love him.”

He felt a shiver of grief pass over him, longing mixed with a desperate, miserable acceptance over the fact that he’d been foolish enough to think he could give anyone- but _especially_ someone as extraordinary as Dorian- the love and care and adoration they deserved.

Why had he even dared to hope? He only ruined everything good he tried to cling to anyway. It was a wonder the Inquisition hadn’t crumbled in on itself like a house of cards, just by virtue of his presence.

“Andraste can’t help me now,” he said quietly. “I’ve made my bed, of my own failings, and it’s my own fault that I now need to lie down in it. There’s no point in discussing something in the past.”

Cassandra let the silence stretch between them, keeping her touch soft over Cullen’s knuckles.

“You’re right,” she said, finally, in an airy tone that made him glance up at her suspiciously. “There is no divine providence that can help you. Andraste supported otherwise hopeless causes when she saw them, but even she had her limits.” She smiled mischievously, clearly waiting for him to join in on her jesting. When he remained silent, she patted him firmly on the hand. “There is _one_ thing you could do,” she said slowly. “It _might_ be a bit unorthodox but... have you tried actually speaking to him?”

Cullen groaned, torn between amusement at her dreadful attempt at humor and misery at the memory. “Dorian made it very abundantly clear that he found my responses to his concerns to be lacking,” he said flatly, staring at their hands. “There is nothing I can do to change the man I was prior to the Inquisition, or the things that occurred in Kirkwall, and- and Dorian didn’t, that is, he was concerned with the way I chose to disclose certain... aspects. And he- then he left. For the Emerald Graves, obviously. You knew that, of course, I didn’t need to tell you that, that much was obvious and-”

And he was babbling. 

He snapped his mouth shut, teeth clacking loudly. “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment. “We tried, and I’m just- not... he deserves someone better. He _needs_ someone better.” 

Cassandra shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps he does deserve better, or need better than you can currently provide for him. Perhaps there is someone else out there who could give him all the things that he needs and deserves- I do know that he and The Iron Bull have developed quite a rapport these last few months. Perhaps, in the absence of your involvement, the two of them will-” 

“Enough,” he said sharply, his chest suddenly tight with jealousy. Cassandra said nothing while he fidgeted, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck as he fought to get his breathing under control. He didn’t like to think of himself as a jealous man, but her words hit a remarkably raw nerve; he didn’t want to dictate how Dorian was to manage his own affairs, but neither did he want to think of another man giving Dorian _anything_. And he most certainly did _not_ want to imagine any lips but his own pressing kisses to his neck and whispering little secrets to him in the middle of the night.

“But he _wants_ you,” Cassandra said gently, when she’d given him a moment to calm down. “I have found that _want_ is irritatingly difficult to ignore.” She narrowed her eyes again, leaning in a little closer to him. “I’m curious- just precisely how _did_ you react to his concerns, I wonder? He is not an unreasonable man, and he was clearly besotted enough to look past your previous indiscretions for the last several months."

He flushed and looked to the side, jaw clenched. “I...” 

_Damn it._

“I was terse with him. Evasive. It was- not a particularly good day for me, and he was obviously...” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, wincing against the headache building there. “He was obviously not in the best frame of mind either, and he required a patience I did not have. I was... less than understanding.”

“That is one of your strategies, isn’t it?” she asked. “You only tell me half of what the truth really is, and hope that I don't uncover the rest.” She sighed, heavily. “I assume that means he came to you in need of understanding and comfort and you were less than hospitable.”

“He did not know what he asked- it would have hurt him more to-” 

“And how are you suddenly the one to decide what is best for him in such a manner? It sounds far more likely to me that you sought to protect your own feelings- and how would you feel if you needed him to be honest with you and he very stubbornly wasn’t?” Her voice softened; in volume, at least, if not in strength. “All of this nonsense and moping over a moment of frustration. You’re both children.”

“I am-” He cut himself off yet again, and sighed. “I am,” he finished lamely. “I was going to say _not_ , but I really am.”

He was silent for a moment. “Which is why Dorian needs better,” he said stubbornly. “Someone who won’t treat him like this over a moment of- of foolish miscommunication and-”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cassandra grunted, pushing away from him with a look of exasperation. “Maker’s Breath, Cullen, these training dummies have more sense than you at times. You _love_ each other. I don't have a great deal of experience with the intricacies of love, but I do remember that it takes work, it takes care, it takes... nights alone and hurt feelings and yes, sometimes it means not feeling good enough for the person who suddenly means more to you than your common sense tell you is logical.”

“That... certainly sounds familiar,” he said weakly.

“But it doesn’t matter if _you_ believe you’re good enough- the decision for that lies with Dorian. He loves you, and you love him. And I am afraid you’re stuck with one another.”

Her lips twitched with a smile when Cullen tried to speak and could think of nothing to say. “Why, Commander, I knew you were a man of few words, but I never thought to see you rendered speechless.”

“I am not speechless, I am simply-”

“Spare me your protestations, Commander- if you have an argument for me, tell it to me with your sword.” She wandered over to the weapons rack outside the smithy and grabbed up two wooden practice swords, tossing one to Cullen as she turned back to him. “You expose too much of yourself when you swing- just like in your arguments. I might as well give you a more fitting chance to defend yourself.”

“Oh, I do, do I? And you have not, perhaps, considered that it might simply be a tactic to lure you in with a false sense of security so that I may strike a more decisive blow?” He ran his fingers over the comfortably worn hilt of his sword, resting his hand there as he hesitated. “I- do you really believe that? About Dorian? And me, I mean.”

“That you’re both ridiculous children? Yes, I do believe that.” She laughed when he glared. “I have known you for years now, Cullen, and I have seen you at what was possibly your lowest. But I have never seen you happier than when you are with him. So, yes, I do believe that.”

Cullen mulled it over for a moment, and then shook his head, finally smiling. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the crack that sounded, and then extended the practice sword towards her. “Well- care to defend that opinion?”

“My opinion that you make an idiot of yourself with a sword, or my opinion that you’ve made an idiot of yourself over a pretty face?”

“Both.”

She smiled, a little sharper. “With pleasure, Commander.”

______

_Skyhold  
Several weeks later_

Correspondence had never been Dorian’s forte, surprisingly. His talent for wit seemed only to extend to his silver tongue, only to turn to overwrought attempts at puns on paper that he inevitably reconsidered too obsessively and had to go back and correct. He agonized over _everything_ , usually to the point of utter frustration and failure and the tip of his quill scratching so furiously at the paper that it tore, ultimately binning whatever progress he’d made. It wasn’t that he disliked writing to Maevaris- she was, after all, his only connection to his homeland now. His family was a lost cause, and most of his friends had all abandoned him long ago for his ‘radical’ leanings, but Maevaris...

She boldly continued the fight against conservatism and tradition in a manner he had often claimed to desire, but had rarely stepped up to when the occasion called for it. She was vivacious, witty, with an excellent grasp of politics and her fingers on the pulse of change- but she still found time for him. Asking after his health and his safety, making sure he was eating enough and that he was staying warm in the frozen south. She teased him, offering to send him a blanket or socks in her next package, instead of the spiced biscuits that he loved so much.

As if he were a child off on some youthful adventure- not that he minded, really. It was a far kinder gesture than his own parents had ever extended to him.

_Both are fine, if such an extravagant expense is not beyond you and your meager coffers, Mae_ , Dorian had written teasingly in return, _for I’d hate to think of you addressing the Magisterium in last season’s styles simply for the sake of some mittens._

And he had smiled when both had come, weeks later. He nibbled at a biscuit as he tried to write his thanks, his toes warmed in her sumptuous wool socks.

What halted his hand as he attempted a response was how her note had ended:

_I hate to think of you in the barbaric south with no one to care for you, and no one who understands your peculiar tastes- although you did abscond for the south in the first place, so who am I to pass judgement on your tastes? Please tell me you have friends, at least, who are being good to you. Or is there someone with whom you are spending your time?_

How was he supposed to answer that?

' _Why yes, Mae, I happen to be indulging myself with a former templar, a Fereldan man who has strong hands and a smile that makes my knees weak, even if his ignorance about food with actual flavor makes me shudder in dismay. Oh, and how's the weather?_ '

If anyone could understand his predicament, it would be Mae- she had defied a great deal more than just tradition when she’d married for love (and to a dwarf no less!), and in the years since Thorold’s death she had shown no sign of belittling his memory for the sake of her own political career. If anyone was likely to smile gently and tease him in between sound relationship advice, it would be her. 

And there was something terrifyingly definitive about putting it in writing. It was one thing to fight against his own ingrained nerves whenever the two of them were in public together, especially here in the safety of Skyhold. It was quite another thing entirely to sit down with intent and write ‘ _I am in love with a man I think I may want to spend my life with’_.

He stared out the window as he dwelt on the enormity of that thought. 

There was no good answer he could confidently give to Mae; at least, nothing that he could think of at the moment, and Dorian put down his pen and pushed away from the desk. A headache was forming behind his eyes, and he winced as stood, flexing his toes in his soft socks and stretching his arms up over his head to work out the kinks in his back.

He and Cullen were... better; they were, at least, able to talk civilly to each other in small doses. Neither of them had tried to breach the topic of forgiveness in regards to their argument, and most of the conversations had admittedly been rather superficial, skirting around any topics that might have been considered controversial. They hadn’t spent any time alone since his return from the Emerald Graves, although there had been a slightly wilted rose sitting in a cup on his desk waiting for him. No note, of course, but he had stopped to breathe in the fragrance of the bloom, imagining he could detect the faintest trace of Cullen’s own scent lingering in the room. 

It wasn’t an apology, or an admittance of guilt, but it was... something. An attempt to reach out to him? A peace offering? Against every sense of self preservation he possessed, he’d worn the damned thing in a buttonhole as if it were the finest corsage money could buy. When Cullen had stood beside him in the dining hall, plate gripped far too tightly by fingers that were white with the stress, he’d stared wordlessly at the flower resting on Dorian’s chest. Bless him, he wouldn’t have stood a chance in Tevinter- it was a wonder he hadn’t blundered and ruined everything for them in Halamshiral, months earlier. He wore his emotions so openly upon his face, so earnest and honestly so refreshing, that Dorian had felt his resolve waver right there in the public hall. So he’d bid Cullen a good evening and had taken his supper elsewhere, where he could be alone with his thoughts and his confused hurt and his frustrated longing for the damnable puppy man.

The sensible thing to do, the _adult_ thing to do, would be simply to talk to him. But talking was terrifying- it not only meant having to lance the ugly wound left by their last argument, but it meant that he had to admit the extent of his need for him out loud. 

_I want to spend the rest of my days with you, Cullen, but do be a dear and explain to me what your current stance on mages is- I’d just hate to think of you trapped in a relationship with someone you don’t even consider human. It would make dinner parties ever so awkward._

He winced. Glib even at his worst moments of self deprecation. 

Cullen had never given him a single reason to doubt him prior to memories the Nightmare had taunted him with. And even then, he’d not attempted to defend himself, or belittle Dorian for his concerns; he’d borne each accusation quietly and had not denied anything Dorian had thrown at him. Nor had he harassed him relentlessly or nagged at him to accept an apology- he’d left him his space, and had not said a cruel or petty word about him to anyone. 

All he’d done was leave him a rose, like this was some terribly wretched doomed love affair from one of Cassandra’s dreadful books. 

“ _Augh_ ,” he muttered, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Venhedis, man, are you going to hide inside your bedroom like a scolded child from now until the end of time or are you going to screw your courage to the sticking place and _do something?_ ”

They’d made some kind of awkward peace between them, but with Mae’s questions spurring him on, awkward peace just wasn’t good enough. He loved Cullen- that was a complete sentence, no ‘ _buts_ ’ or ‘ _ifs_ ’ or ‘ _ands_ ’ necessary. He loved Cullen. Everything else was a secondary consideration.

He took a deep breath, hands shaking as he sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. The afternoon was young; no doubt Cullen was in his office, bogged down with paperwork as always.

Perhaps he could find find a better use for his time.

The main hall was never quiet these days, not with so many Orlesian nobles and foreign diplomats and influential traders seeking to curry favour with Namaethelle; thankfully he moved quickly enough that if anyone sought to catch his attention, he missed them entirely. The last thing he wanted right now was to find himself caught discussing Nama’s position on the disputed territories around Perendale or some other bloody mundane inanity. 

When he passed Solas on the way to the overpass to Cullen’s quarters, he had the nerve to critique his socks, as though he was one one to judge with his shabby clothing and hobo aesthetics. Dorian said as much, and Solas’ laughter followed him outside.

The walk across the footbridge seemed to take an eternity, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling more exposed in his life; anyone down in the courtyard could just look up and see him heading towards Cullen’s rooms, or watch him from the library windows, or spy from the rookery balcony, or-

He took a sharp breath from between clenched teeth, pointedly relaxing his hands where they had tightened into fists at his sides.

At Cullen’s door, Dorian paused, hand pressed lightly to the wood. The last time he had been here... things hadn’t gone well for them.

But he wanted him.

Dorian knocked, entering before Cullen invited him in. His mother had always said he lacked manners, anyway.

“I don’t care what we need to make it happen- speak to the quartermaster if there’s an issue with supplies, but we need to get Dagna’s design for the sulphur filters moving a lot faster than they have been so far.” Cullen handed a list of instructions to Mahrain, glancing towards the door at the flicker of movement at the edge of his peripheral vision. He tensed slightly at Dorian’s entrance, his heart fluttering like a caged bird behind his ribs as the other man relaxed quite casually beside the door. 

“Ser, yes ser. I’ll need to have more of the dwarven breathing apparatus shipped to Griffon Wing Keep, we’ve had a few lads come back with the rattles in their lungs, but I’ll get the work order organized this afternoon.”

He stood there so effortlessly, as if it hadn’t been weeks since Cullen had looked up to find him waiting for him, as if it were completely comfortable and normal for him to wait for him in his quarters. There was no nervous energy to him, no hint of frustration or anger; in fact he looked so at ease that it took his breath away, as if Dorian was always meant to be in his rooms and in his life, and the past few weeks had been an unfortunate anomaly. 

“I... that’s excellent,” he said, covering his momentary lapse in attention as he turned back to the captain before him. “Remember to check in with Sister Leliana, to make sure we haven’t had any further updates from Rylen.”

“Ser.”

She bowed, a hand clenched over her heart, and then marched towards the door, nodding her head politely to Dorian as she passed. She seemed to have a handle on the mood in the room, and had the forethought to close the door behind her on the way out, and then the two of them were alone.

Cullen shivered. 

He made a show of shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him, needlessly tidying them into ever more severe squares of organization. “Dorian,” he said quietly, his eyes not quite meeting his- it was easier to stare at his own hands, pretend he was looking at the reports before him. “Was there something you needed?” 

Dorian’s chuckle sent another shiver down his spine, warmth pooling in his belly at the sound. “You,” Dorian said, his tone amused. He moved closer, his hands locked behind his back, his smile a little shy as he stopped beside Cullen’s desk. “You’re all I’ve been needing, Cullen.”

Cullen blinked, taken aback by the blunt honesty of the response. They’d done little more than nod politely to one another in the halls these last few weeks, awkward and worn out by their confrontation, and he’d resigned himself to accepting that he’d ruined everything for good. 

Hope flared in his chest, ruthlessly quashed a moment later by the cruel sneering voices in his head, and he cleared his throat and glanced away. “I, uh...” He risked a quick look at Dorian, and his heart lurched at the hesitant smirk that curled his lip into a smile. “I- well. That’s not what I was expecting.”

He looked away again, resisting the urge to drum his fingers nervously on the desk or rub at the back of his neck because this was so much more than he’d been expecting and not in a thousand years would he have dared to hope for that answer. 

Maker, he wanted to hope.

Dorian’s movements were all sinuous and lissome, as graceful as a stalking cat and with the same predatory gleam in his eye; he watched him carefully from the edge of his vision, his pulse beating faster with every step he took, completely spellbound by his approach and too lovesick to care. 

His breathing stuttered when Dorian sat on the edge of his desk, every movement slow and careful and considered as he reached for him. Cullen’s eyelids fluttered closed as his fingers brushed over his skin, and the breath in his chest seemed locked there, unable to move; Dorian traced gentle shapes over his jaw, his lips... his fingertips skimmed over his skin so carefully that a feather would have felt heavy by comparison. 

“Dorian...” he rasped.

“Breathe, amatus,” came the whispered response. The fingers dipped beneath his chin and cupped his jaw, while the other hand came up to brush his hair away from his forehead. “I know I’m swoon worthy, but surely our first conversation after so long would be better served if you were conscious for it?”

He tilted Cullen’s face up with gentle, insistent fingers, his heart beating a little harder when he felt his thumb brushing slowly back and forth across his lower lip.

_Amatus..._

Desperate, hungry hope burst to life in him at the comfortable, teasing way Dorian named him beloved, at the casual flirtations he offered to him. He shivered at the touch of soft, manicured fingers brushing over his skin, far more intimate a gesture than he was expecting as an opening foray.

“And, I might add, when have I _ever_ been what you were expecting, amatus?” Dorian asked, the faintest hint of a chuckle in his voice. 

Cullen’s fingers curled against the arms of his chair, itching to touch him but far too afraid to reach out. “I...” His voice wobbled dangerously, emotion threatening to choke him far too easily compared to Dorian’s easy flirtations

He struggled to find the words, his stomach clenching and rolling uncertainly, his heart picking up more speed when silence stretched between them. “Did you miss me?” Dorian asked into the space between them, when Cullen could not fill the silence.

He swallowed and finally opened his eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re _here_ ,” he said, so quietly that Dorian had to lean in closer to hear him. He couldn’t look at him, his eyes sliding to the side. “But yes, miserably so.”

“Miserably so? Maker, that does sound serious,” Dorian said teasingly, running his fingers up into Cullen’s hair. He leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially “I’ve missed you too, you know.”

His heart leapt even as his conscience threw up a wall to stop him from getting ahead of himself. “Dorian,” he said softly, “the way I treated you was unconscionable, and I am not comfortable forgiving myself for that. I don’t for a moment think my behaviour was acceptable, and I...”

He’d practiced his apologies a thousand times over in the last few weeks, trying to find the words he needed to express the immensity of his grief and remorse and guilt. They had said harsh things to one another, but Cullen...

Cullen knew he was the only one of them truly at fault; Dorian had only expressed legitimate concerns, and he’d treated him with patronizing contempt. Dorian was only right to demand his honesty and his complete transparency in things that affected his own safety. Did he look at him and see a broken man, still haunted by those things he had endured, or did he look at him and see only what he’d done in the aftermath, what he’d seen and turned away from, what hatreds he’d permitted to endure for so many years.

Dorian knew that he saw a mage when he looked at him. And perhaps, even without the lyrium, without the armor, he saw himself as a templar, still.

Dorian’s fingers were firm under his chin, and for a moment the sparkling humor in his eyes stilled. “You are _more_ than what you’ve done,” he said in low, urgent tones, “and you are more than what has been done to you.”

He swallowed, finally allowing himself to look up into those stormy grey eyes. “You deserve so much better than how I treated you,” he began.

Dorian sighed and pulled Cullen up by the front of his shirt. “If you tell me one more time what I deserve, without allowing me to make that decision myself, I might very well scream,” Dorian said, dragging him to the edge of the seat. “I _want_ you.”

He kissed him, _hard_ , before Cullen could argue with him, or interject with more excuses as to why he shouldn’t. In fact, he had his mouth open, a rejoinder bubbling up to his lips, and Dorian took advantage of the lapse, angling his mouth over his and sucking his upper lip between his a moment later, bold and hungry and taunting. 

He slid forward so eagerly that he almost slipped straight off the edge of the chair, his hands automatically going to Dorian’s thighs either side of his knees to steady himself; any objection he might have wanted to voice seemed quite irrelevant, his mind deliciously blank in the face of his desire while his mouth was otherwise occupied. Dorian’s tongue slid boldly over his lower lip, a smile tugging at his mouth as he pressed his teeth down gently on his top lip, enough to have Cullen gasping against him. His hands slid around the curve of Dorian’s legs, just enough that he had something to hold- quite an unconscious move on his part, however fortuitous it worked out for him- and his head spun at the heady, desperate surge of wild need that sparked through him at Dorian’s kiss. 

Maker, but he’d missed this- missed _him_ , rather, not just the physical intimacy. He’d missed hiding a laugh at his ridiculous antics, or listening enthralled to him rant about the shortcomings of a certain author or scientific technique that made utterly no sense to him at all but apparently meant the world to Dorian. He missed the friendly rivalry of their chess games, a brief moment of respite in the stress and action of the escalating war. 

He missed _Dorian_ \- his lazy kisses when he woke first thing in the morning, his absurd questions late at night when one or both of them couldn’t sleep and Dorian took it upon himself to amuse them with inanities like ‘ _if you were an animal, what would you be and why is your answer clearly not a lion when it should be_ ’. He missed his unthinking affection, when he draped his fingers over his while reading, or when he offered him a bite of his supper, the way he’d fought against his own fears to stand publicly beside him.

It was colder and lonelier in his bed than he wanted to admit to himself, beyond even their limited sexual relationship. When he fell asleep at his desk only to stagger up to bed in the small hours of the morning, his bed was far too achingly empty without Dorian sprawled across it. When he woke shaking and nauseous from nightmares, it was far more taxing to calm himself without someone else to cling to, someone warm and safe and alive.

It had never been an issue before, but he’d never known the comfort he was missing, the support he’d been denying himself.

Maker, but he missed Dorian so much.

He was shaking, kissing him desperately as Dorian threaded his fingers through his hair, and he was babbling a moment later. “I’m sorry, Dorian,” he stuttered, the words bursting from him between kisses. “I’m so sorry, Maker, _I’m sorry._ ” 

He was warmth where Cullen had only allowed himself coldness these last few weeks; he was everything familiar and comfortable while he had existed in an empty void. He did not know how he had come to be so dependent on the difference Dorian’s presence made in his life, but it was an intimacy that made Cullen feel safe after a decade of feeling wounded and alone. 

“So am I,” Dorian whispered to him, a shaky laugh breaking from him as Cullen peppered him with kisses. “I’m so sorry, amatus, I should never have lost my temper-”

“ _You_ shouldn’t have lost your temper? What about me? I was nothing but a wretch to you, Dorian, and I-”

Dorian kissed him hard again, his lips trailing up Cullen’s jaw at moment later, his arms looping around his neck. “Let’s play a little game of Yes or No,” he said, his teeth scraping along the edge of Cullen’s jaw until he shivered. “Were you a templar?”

“What? Dorian-”

“Were you a templar?”

Cullen pulled away marginally, enough to make eye contact with him; there was no mockery in his eyes, no scorn. A trace of mischief, perhaps, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. “... yes?” he said hesitantly.

“Did you, in the course of your duties, ever have occasion to voice hurtful or dehumanizing opinions about mages?” His stomach dropped, and he tried to look away, but Dorian’s hand was clamped tight around his jaw, holding him in place. “Yes or no, Cullen.”

He licked his lips miserably, trying not to snuffle pathetically or feel self conscious about the damp mess on his cheeks from the tears. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. 

“And do you stand by those opinions?” 

“Maker, _no!_ ” His fingers dug in deep to Dorian’s thighs, enough that Dorian gasped softly, but the look in his eyes was not one of pain. “Maker, all I want is to protect people, it was all I ever wanted, and I- I made some terrible mistakes in the pursuit of that.”

“Hmm, I would have deducted points for veering from the purpose of the game, but your impassioned defense has swayed me to go easy on you.”

He felt his face heat. “Dorian, this isn’t a _game_ ,” he said.

“You seem determined to deflect any serious attempts at discussion with your woeful self-pitying routines, so if I am to have answers from you in any sufficient quantity to ease your conscience, I have to treat it with less brevity.”

“ _Dorian_ -”

“Did you ever, in the course of your duties, find yourself in a situation where you killed a mage in cold blood?”

He slammed his jaw closed so fast that his teeth clacked painfully. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“Is your answer yes?” 

“No, I’m asking what you would do if my answer _was_ yes.”

“That is decidedly _not_ in the nature of the game, Commander Rutherford.”

“I never-” He bit the words off before he could babble, and say something he could later regret. “I never took a life in cold blood,” he said softly, glancing to the side so that he couldn’t see the inevitable disappointment in Dorian’s eyes. “My hands are far from clean, I’ll be the first to admit that, but I- I always tried-” He could feel tears burning in his eyes again and he clenched his teeth together in frustration. “I’m not a good man, but I was never _that_.”

Dorian’s thumb brushed first beneath his left eye, and then his right eye, clearing away the tears as they threatened to spill onto his cheeks. After a moment he felt the whisper of a kiss on his brow, and he opened his eyes to see Dorian staring down at him. “And now it’s done,” he whispered, his expression so gentle that Cullen felt the world tilt sideways, so unbearably vulnerable and raw in that heartbeat of time that he couldn’t bear to look at him. “You’ve told me, and the world has not ended, has it?” He looked around, adopting a conspiratorial look. “Although, according to Mother Giselle, to see a templar and a mage indulging in physical sin together is _definitely_ a sign of the end times.” 

It roused a weak laugh from him, soggy from the tears, and Dorian’s smile when he laughed was breathtaking. When Dorian leaned in slowly again, giving him plenty of time to demand that boundaries be adhered to, he did actually hold his breath in anticipation of the moment. His eyes fluttered closed a heartbeat before contact, Dorian’s nose brushing gently against his as his mouth hovered over his for a moment, his breath warm against his lips before he closed the last half inch to kiss him with such exquisite care that the keep could have been raided by red templars in that moment and he wouldn’t have even noticed. 

He reached up with a shaking hand to twine his fingers through Dorian’s hair, running softly across the carefully shaved sides that felt like velvet beneath his fingertips; he cradled the back of his head in his hand, and he felt the precise moment when Dorian melted into him. 

“I missed you so badly, you daft, beautiful man. How _dare_ you make me feel so miserable- I was pining after you, you wretch, _pining!_ I couldn’t even... I couldn’t-” Dorian clung to him, and Cullen felt quite sure that if he let go of him, he might never hold him again. Irrational, of course, but Cullen felt he was entitled to feeling a bit irrational after what they’d been through. “I _love_ you, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, the most painfully Fereldan man in existence,” Dorian said, pressing his face against Cullen’s hair. “How _dare_ you make me _pine_.”

When Dorian slid into his lap, nuzzling and petting and cooing to him, Cullen shuddered and wrapped his arms around him, trembling violently and not too proud to deny the fact that he was crying still. He wound himself so tightly around him, face buried against his chest as he pulled him closer into the chair. “I don’t want to hurt you again,” he said, his voice muffled where he hid his face- all the better, really, since it meant it covered the treacherous stutter in his voice that only seemed determined to get stronger. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, or ever have a reason to be afraid. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I love you.”

“Shhh,” Dorian hushed. He cradled the back of Cullen’s head, carding his fingers through his hair and whispering to him until his muffled apologies and tears slowed. “You giant puppy of a man, there is nothing you could do that would ever give me a reason to be afraid,” Dorian said. “I am, after all, the most fantastically talented mage in all of Thedas, am I not? So it’s only to be expected that there would be very little capable of frightening me.”

“You’re afraid of heights,” Cullen mumbled against his chest. 

“Oh, and just like that, suddenly it’s open season on poor innocent Dorian? Any other crippling flaws to point out, perhaps you find my ears uneven?”

“You have perfect ears.” He illustrated the point by shuffling around in the chair until he could trail his lips up Dorian’s neck, taking his earlobe gently between his teeth and tugging until Dorian’s breathing turned heavy.

He nipped playfully at his ear until Dorian giggled shakily, turning his head to face him. “It’s alright, amatus,” he said, sinking into an open mouthed kiss with a happy, contented sigh, and for a time they lost themselves in the quiet intimacy of lazy kisses and gentle hands.

When they were calm, or at least, calmer, Dorian pulled back to look down at him. His hair was adorably mussed from where Cullen had been running his hands through it, and his lips were plump and swollen from the kisses, his pupils blown wide with a look of dazed lust that sent a spike of heat straight to Cullen’s groin. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he said, his voice amusingly hoarse after their passionate canoodling. “But the question intriguing me, of course, is whether it’s nightmares, whether it’s withdrawal headaches, or whether it’s simply because you are the _very_ important and _very_ serious Commander of the Inquisition’s forces and you’ve decided for yourself that sleep is a luxury afforded to people other than you?”

“You think you’ve got me figured out that easily, do you?”

Dorian made a scoffing noise. “Amatus, _please_ , who do you think you are speaking to? I’d quite happily wager you haven’t been taking your meals with any sort of regularity either, because you are so very bad at wagers and I would undoubtedly win, and frankly my ego appreciates it immensely when I win.”

Cullen couldn’t help it- he laughed. 

“Oh, so my wholesome attempts at nurturing and tenderness evoke laughter now?” Dorian asked. “And you’ve quite clumsily avoided answering my questions and deep sense of concern about your wellbeing, when all I asked was how bad your chronic pain was.”

Despite his outrageously dramatic way of framing the question, he was being rather direct. Cullen let out a huff of air that might have qualified as a laugh in other circumstances, but just felt exhausting now. “Unremarkable,” he said plainly. “It is nothing that I have not already endured for a decade, and that’s assuming I found enough sleep to dream badly in the first place, which... I did not.”

Dorian kissed him, softly, between his eyes, pressing his lips to his brow until the frown there eased. “Just because you have endured it for a decade does not mean that you have to simply grit your teeth and endure it for a decade more,” he said.

His tone bordered on petulance, and Cullen couldn’t help but laugh again, squeezing him gently around the waist. “As humbled as I continue to be that you would concern yourself with my health, this is not something to be fixed with a simple potion or a poultice.” He nuzzled under his chin, hiding his face from view. “It just... is a part of my life.”

“That does not mean I am going to just turn my back and continue on with my day when you are suffering,” he said pointedly. 

Cullen smiled sadly, eyes closed as he breathed him in. “You help more than you know,” he murmured, adrift in the feel of him, warm and soft in his arms. 

He could almost hear Dorian scheming in the silence that followed. “Amatus,” he said slowly, as if he was still plotting even as he spoke, “a thought occurs to me.”

“A remarkable day indeed- should I inform the crier?”

A hand slapped lightly across his shoulder. “I’d like to try something,” Dorian said. “I want you to meet me in the courtyard, tonight. When there aren’t as many prying eyes.”

“Are we thinking of the same courtyard? The center of activity in the Inquisition, fastest growing political and military power in Thedas?”

“Are you just determined to be snide and mouthy today?”

Cullen smiled against his neck. 

“I am fairly certain we could both use the distraction,” Dorian continued, as if Cullen hadn’t interrupted him in the first place. “And Maker knows the past few weeks have been stressful, so... say you’ll meet me?”

He pulled back to look up at him, searching his face for any sort of indication as to what to expect. Any sign of trickery or mockery, the cruelty that the voices in his heart insisted had to be there. He found nothing but earnest anticipation. “Of course,” he said softly, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his. “Anything you want, Dorian. I’ll- I’ll be there, whenever you need.” His reached for his hand, his fingers twined through his as if he was an anchor for him. 

“Meet me by the tavern at midnight,” Dorian whispered. He kissed him again, with more hunger than before, enough that it took Cullen by surprise. It bordered on ferocious, territorial, and they were both breathless by the time Dorian pulled away. “Wear something... _accessible_ , would you amatus?” Dorian purred against Cullen’s ear, nibbling at his earlobe in a way that could only imply an interest in one thing. “I can’t promise my fingers will be very coordinated at such a late hour.”

His heart sped up, a combination of the kisses and the silken words. “Midnight,” he repeated, his voice a little more hoarse with need than he was expecting. “I- yes. Yes, of course.”

He swallowed as Dorian nuzzled at the racing pulse in his neck, teeth scraping gently over flushed skin. “And I- if I can’t-” He gritted his teeth, frustrated at his stuttering. “If the _door_ is closed, is that... okay?” he asked, trying not to cringe as he hoped Dorian remembered the pathetic metaphor he’d used so long ago now. “I’m not saying it will be, I’m- I just, I don’t... know?”

Dorian’s heart hurt; not because Cullen asked him about boundaries in a way that implied any plans he might have had for ravishing him that night had to be put on hold, but that he sounded so afraid to ask in the first place, so unsure of himself and how to express himself to Dorian.

He wondered how many lovers had told him it wasn’t alright, that finding the door closed- as Cullen politely phrased it- wasn’t something they could tolerate. Granted, they had barely come down from the emotional devastation of their weeks long falling-out, and things were understandably going to be delicate for some time to come, but surely Cullen had to know that even in the midst of an argument he never had to fear for his own personal autonomy and safety with him? For Dorian, he was so much more than supple skin and warm, honey eyes. He was more than his hands and his mouth and his beautiful body and the pleasure Dorian could draw from him. He traced his fingers over the center of Cullen’s chest, fingertips soft over the bunched fabric of his tunic; when he placed his hand flat, he could feel the faintest thrum of his beating heart beneath his palm.

“I love you,” Dorian said firmly. “Nothing matters to me more than being close to you, whatever that may or may not entail.” 

Cullen stared up at him, a flicker of hope slowly kindling in his eyes. He took a deep breath. “Alright,” he said softly. “Midnight, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an aside, obviously given that Hawke was a mage in the last chapter, the surviving sibling should have been Carver, but we're both ridiculously fond of Bethany and the mention of her worked a little better than Carver. We just like to pretend that all three siblings survived the trip to Kirkwall.


	6. Chapter 6

Right.

Well.

How did one plan a seduction that was not quite a seduction in case one’s lover became distressed at the thought of sexual intimacy? All he knew about seduction he’d garnered from his debauched younger days living in the brothels of Minrathous, and while he’d appreciated the bluntness of it at the time, it wasn’t what he needed right now. He couldn’t just ply Cullen with cheap wine and then wander up to him and fondle him through his pants until the two of them fell drunkenly to the floor to rut mindlessly together and fall asleep sticky and stained together. 

Well, he probably _could_ , but that didn’t mean he wanted to. This was about more than a cheap and easy fuck, this was... _Cullen_. This was the terrifying potential for _forever_ , something he’d never allowed himself to consider before, up until this ridiculous man had slammed into his heart and knocked down any walls he’d built around it in an attempt at self preservation and had made him fall in love. 

Forever was a very long time when you were terrified of everything falling down around you, but it was also a very long time to live without Cullen’s stupidly dorkish snort laugh as well. He didn’t really want to lose that adorable laugh. 

Maker, what a maudlin, lovesick fool he’d become- and right now he didn’t want it any other way. 

There were plenty of supplies to be found around Skyhold itself that he could quietly accrue without anyone the wiser. Nobody thought anything of it when he sauntered through the great hall with a bottle of wine. Nor did it raise any suspicions when he trekked through a half hour later with a plate piled high with food, because it was well known by now that his sleeping habits made him prone to take meals at all ends of the day and night. 

Flowers were trickier, and he had to resign himself to the fact that there was no subtle way to wander through the garden removing every single trace of a petal. Mother Giselle watched him coldly from her place by the well, hands folded demurely before her as her eyes followed his trek of destruction across the yard. He was no botanist, and he wasn’t delicate with the plants- and apparently, given the number of thorns he encountered and the stinging sap that irritated his skin, they didn’t feel inclined to repay the favor. 

Candles were easy, because all he had to do was stand and stare silently at the quartermaster while he stammered and stuttered awkwardly and finally relented and let him have an entire box of cheap wax candles. 

Which left the keys. 

Namaethelle had, very sensibly, insisted upon a gate being installed at the top of the stairs leading down to the bathhouse- the last thing they needed was for half drunk soldiers to stagger down and break their neck on the stairs in their enthusiasm, or to fall asleep in the water while the pools were unattended and drown. He counted it to be very poor form that he hadn’t automatically been gifted with a key to the gate, given how much work he’d put into the damned plumbing over the last few months, but his complaints had fallen on deaf ears. The less keys there were in circulation, the less chance there was of something going terribly wrong. 

Didn’t mean he couldn’t be horrendously dramatic about being excluded. 

Josephine was nowhere to be seen when he went to her office- which, given the hour, wasn’t that surprising. Just because Cullen had a chronic inability to stop working didn’t mean that everyone in Skyhold was gripped with the same workaholic tendencies. But for her to be absent from her office meant there was really only one place she was likely to be.

With Namaethelle.

He gritted his teeth and plastered on a charming smile, trying not to cringe as he climbed the stairs to Nama’s tower and considered the ludicrous amounts of teasing he was about to endure. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he muttered under his breath, “even if they tease, it’s just humor between friends. It’s not a condemnation.”

Her door was before him before he was quite ready for it, but if he was anything in life he was certainly not a coward. He rapped on the door sharply, and stood patiently with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for her arrival. 

For at least half a minute, nothing happened. Irritation slowly began to creep in- if they weren’t in the tower, and they weren’t in the office, then where were they hiding? He knocked again, harder this time, and fought the urge to fidget in annoyance. 

There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the door and then Namaethelle threw it open, her hair askew and her eyes slightly wild. When she saw him waiting her eyes widened in something akin to panic for a moment, before she rather pointedly wedged herself in the doorway to stop him from coming inside. “Dorian!” she said cheerfully, a little too breathlessly. “How are- what a _wonderful_ surprise to see you this evening!”

He looked at her knowingly and she flushed a deep red. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, my dear,” he said, his tone verging on sarcastic. “You must have been sleeping rather heavily to have missed my knock the first time.”

“Sleeping! Yes, definitely, I was- yes.” She beamed rather manically at him. “Was there something I could do for you to- how can I send you on your way?”

Not even slightly subtle. He tried to look past her and she very hastily closed the door halfway. He raised his eyebrows pointedly at her and called “Good _evening_ , Josephine.”

Nama’s face went even redder, and for a moment silence greeted his words, and then finally Josephine’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair just as wildly askew as Nama’s and her cheeks flushed. “Oh! Dorian, how do you- I mean, good _evening_ to you! I was just-”

“You just slipped and got your lipstick all over our dear Inquisitor’s neck- awful business that, ever so inconvenient.” Nama slapped her hand to her neck so hard that the sound of it rang through the tower, and Dorian couldn’t help but laugh at the mortified look on her face. “Maker’s Breath, why would you ever think you’ve a need to be concerned about my opinion? Which, for what it’s worth, is utter delight that I’ve finally caught you in a compromising situation so that I finally have the ammunition to not be the butt of everyone’s jokes for once.”

“What do you want, Dorian?” Nama asked, her tone slightly desperate.

He smiled patiently at her. “I want the keys to the bathhouse cavern.”

Silence met his words, and at the top of the stairs Josephine crept out of view again. Nama chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “Why?” she said finally. 

“Because I am trying my utmost not to sabotage the most remarkable thing that has ever happened to me, and I’d appreciate your cooperation in the matter. Now give me the keys.”

A look of understanding came over Nama’s face, and the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks faded as something entirely more devious sparkled in her eyes. “Ohhh-”

“Don’t you ‘ _oh_ ’ me, madam, or I will not be responsible for the terribly lewd copper dreadfuls being passed around the barracks in the next few days.”

“That’s a terrible threat, Dorian, I’m already _in_ half a dozen copper dreadfuls that I’ve seen, including some terribly explicit ones with very exaggerated physical endowments.” She made rather pointed gestures towards her chest. “But... you promise you’ll clean up?”

“Promise.”

“And there’s not sordid blood magic orgies going to be going on?”

“Well, not now that you’ve ruined the surprise.”

Josephine reappeared at the top of the stairs, a blanket clutched to her front as she tossed something down to Nama. They tinkled noisily, and Nama caught it easily enough, before sighing and holding it out to Dorian. 

_The keys._

“Please tell me this means you’ve stopped fighting,” she said plainly. “You’ve both been unbearable these last few weeks.”

He took the keys at last, a rush of relief flooding through him. “Well, let’s just say that if you hear shouting from the lower levels of the keep, don’t necessarily assume that something terrible is happening.”

______

Midnight was not nearly as quiet an hour as he had assumed it to be; despite having lived in Kirkwall for nearly a decade, his duties had very rarely called for him to be present in the city at such a late hour, so he had very little experience with late night revellers. Skyhold was no city, but the Herald’s Rest was still crowded to capacity, music and laughter trickling out into the night as he eyed the door warily.

It was a little cold, the clear sky above them a brilliant tapestry of stars on velvet black, but with no cloud cover the cold seemed deeper, more intense. He stamped his feet on the spot and tucked his hands under his arms, confused by Dorian’s instructions but determined to follow them to the letter. He wore only a plain cotton shirt and a pair of old breeches, his boots old enough for him to want to avoid the various puddles across the courtyard on the off chance the seams no longer held up against water. 

He couldn’t think of anything more unappealing than trying to hop in place in the courtyard in the middle of the night, trying to get a soggy boot off of his frozen toes. 

The hour candles in his office had burned down to indicate it was close enough to midnight, but what if he’d misjudged the time? What if midnight had come and gone, and he’d simply not been paying attention to the slow burn of the candle? What if Dorian had given up waiting for him in frustration, fed up with his contradictory moods?

He bit his tongue and tightened his arms around himself, telling himself it was for the cold and not at all because he could pretend it was a comforting hug.

The door to the Herald’s Rest kept banging open as the merrymakers came and went, and each time he felt himself blushing and looking away, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel their curious eyes on him. He felt like a right idiot, to be honest. 

Fingers slid over his eyes when he was least expecting it, the heat of a warm body pressed up against his back as lips feathered a kiss across his ear. “ _Guess who_.”

He almost started in shock at the first touch on his face, but he relaxed a moment later at the familiar scent teasing at his nose and the amusement in the voice tickling at his ear. “Hmmm,” he said, playing along and pretending to consider the question deeply even as he leaned back into his arms. “There’s only one person who would possibly be sneaking up on me at this hour, in Skyhold, and it's clearly Garahel, the hero of the Fourth Blight.”

The snort of laughter delighted him. “ _Southerners_ ,” Dorian said in feigned exasperation. “You do love your heroes, don’t you?”

“Well, I love you, and you’ve been fairly consistently heroic this past year, so... yes. I do.”

He felt the moment of surprise his words caused, the way Dorian’s breath caught in his throat before he laughed, the hesitation already smoothed away. The hands slid off of his face, only for a silk ribbon to take their place over his eyes. “There,” he said, turning Cullen around and fussing with the ribbon to settle it snugly over his nose. “No peeking, you. I’m expecting you to be a good boy. Do I have your word?”

“Oh, Maker,” Cullen laughed, grateful for the darkness that hid his furious blush. “Dorian, if anyone looks out into the courtyard and sees this, neither of us will ever live this down, you know.”

“As you’ve no doubt noticed, I care very little for what others think of me. I rather hope to scandalize them in fact, if you’ve ever the desire to join me in such an endeavour.”

He felt the silk slide over his skin as Dorian tightened it carefully, smoothing it into place, and he shivered. “I’ll be good,” he said, far quieter than a moment ago. “For you.”

He felt Dorian entwine his fingers with his, gently pulling him in the direction he wished to move. There was a thrill in stumbling after him, trusting him to guide him safely, a shiver of excitement that ran up his spine and through his belly.

“I do like you when you’re being good,” Dorian murmured, a faint kiss pressed to his lips and a chuckle sounding a moment later when Cullen whined and tried to lean into the kiss. “I like you more when you’re desperate.”

“That’s not fair,” he huffed, aware of how petulant he sounded.

“I never said I was fair, darling.”

They stumbled and shuffled their way across Skyhold, and Cullen very quickly lost track of where they could possibly be. Dorian eased him down and then up various flights of stairs- he could have sworn he heard the horses at one point, so their path must have taken them past the stables?- and he shivered with relief when they passed through a door and into the warmth of the interior castle. He lost his footing more than once, stumbling into Dorian’s arms, and they giggled and laughed like twelve year olds, hands petting at one another far more than was necessary to right his posture from a simple fall. 

Cullen had felt the rising temperature as they’d walked- or rather, as he’d shuffled along and Dorian had chuckled at his awkward waddle and carefully navigated him down yet another flight of stairs. The cool air of the night faded away, his skin almost damp with heat that seemed out of place in their cold stone fortress. His curiosity grew, along with a vague edge of apprehension, always that niggling fear that he was not enough for Dorian, that he could not give him what he wanted...

He swallowed down the worry and kept his eyes tight shut as Dorian finally pulled him to a halt, positioning him with immense precision before he slid the silk from his eyes, the gentle touch of the ribbon easing over his skin enough to make him shiver again. 

“Well?” Dorian asked. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“What’s-” He opened his eyes at last, blinking as he grew accustomed to the light again, and then freezing in surprise. They were in some sort of cavern, the walls decorated with pockmarked mosaics that must have been fine indeed at some point in the past, but looked a little weary now. This was no rustic cave, not at all- the whole thing appeared to have been shaped by very patient hands, no sharp edges or surprising dips in the floor, and dotted across the space were a variety of pools, steam wafting gently from the surface. 

The entire space was illuminated by what seemed like hundreds of candles, all flickering merrily and causing the mosaics to sparkle like melting gold upon the walls. The pool nearest to them had colorful petals scattered across the surface, and the faint rainbow shimmers suggested that some kind of oil was sprinkled over the water as well. Stacked neatly to the side of the pool was a stack of ridiculously fluffy towels and a pair of robes, and right by the water’s edge was a bucket of ice carefully chilling an uncorked bottle of wine, two crystal goblets sitting ready. The finishing touch was a tray of bite sized food that looked to have been arranged by someone who had never before been responsible for preparing his own food.

Out of all of it, that was the one that made his heart lurch up into his throat and his lip quiver. “I- what is this? Where are we?”

“This is a _magical_ land where worry and stress melt away,” Dorian said triumphantly, sounding ridiculously smug. His hands smoothed over Cullen’s shoulders from behind, and his lips nibbled along the curve of his ear. “The scouts were performing routine checks around Skyhold- you know, making sure Corypheus wasn’t scaling the walls, and the Venatori weren’t tunneling their way in like insidious worms- and they found these down here. After everyone was positive they weren’t filled with toxic gas, it fell to yours truly- as the most talented man of science in residence, of course- to get the facilities up and running again, which is how I occupied myself for the past few weeks when I wasn’t pining miserably over your absence.”

He paused, clearly waiting for some kind of gushing adoration from Cullen, and when nothing came he twisted around to look at his face. “Are you...” There was a beat or two of silence, and then- “Oh no, no, don’t _cry_ , you’re not supposed to _cry_ , that’s the _opposite_ of what I wanted.”

Cullen took a shaky breath, his lip trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice wobbling dangerously, “it’s just- no one has ever _done_ something like this for me before.”

“Well, I’ve never _tried_ to do this for someone before, either, and if you keep crying I’m going to assume I’ve done an appalling job of it and never attempt it again.” Dorian moved around him, turning him in his arms to face him, a faint noise of distress escaping from his lips. “ _Amatus_ ,” he said, his hands sliding up the outside of Cullen’s arms and up to cradle his face. “You ridiculous man, why are you crying?”

The first tear slid onto his cheek, and Dorian just as quickly brushed it away. “Because I _hurt_ you,” Cullen said, his voice cracking. “I hurt you and yet you still do all this for me-”

“ _Cullen_ ,” he said firmly, leaning in until his forehead rested against his. “I know you can’t forgive yourself, but my choice to forgive you was _my_ decision to make, not yours. This is supposed to be an expression of my forgiveness and my-” He fumbled with the word for just a second and then frowned fiercely, charging on. “My _love_ for you, you soft-hearted wretch. Honestly, look at all this romantic nonsense I’ve put myself through- I can never, _ever_ let Cassandra know about this- because apparently at some point in the last six months it has become stupidly important to me that you are given reasons to smile, and know you are appreciated.”

He wrapped his arms around him, tugging him close until the strength of the embrace became breathtaking; Cullen buried his face in the curve of Dorian’s neck, trying not to shake with the onslaught of emotions in his head and his heart. Dorian whispered kisses over his hair and his temples, and along the curve of his cheekbone when he could reach it. At some point, Cullen shifted ever so slightly, enough that when Dorian’s lips dipped lower against his cheek he could lean up a little and offer him his mouth, the kiss slow and needy and drugging as their hands pressed tight around each other. 

He gasped softly when Dorian’s hand slid between them and toyed with the laces on his shirt, giving him the space he needed to play. The gasp morphed into a moan at the nimble teasing of his fingers, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh despite the warmth in the air as he let Dorian hitch his shirt up enough for his palm to press flat to his stomach, his fingers rubbing at the tufts of blond hair on his belly that apparently still delighted him, even after all this time.

He was somewhat dazed at the turn the day was taking, and the speed with which things were progressing, and when Dorian reached for the laces of his pants he grabbed at his wrists, holding him still as just heart lurched up into his throat. “Dorian,” he said desperately, licking kiss-bruised lips and trying to ignore the way his cock had begun to thicken in his pants at their escalating passion. “I... I don’t understand- is this... what is this? What are we?”

“‘ _What are we_ ’, he asks,” Dorian chuckled. He kept his hand still, however, well aware that Cullen was on a knife edge, unsure of which way to fall. “As if that’s the most pressing question for the evening. We’re-”

How could he even begin to describe what they were, what Cullen meant to him? He was the one who had stood with him, who had loved him when the world had convinced Dorian he wasn’t worth being loved. Cullen was the one who had supported him, who had believed in him, who had seen the good in him where everyone else saw flash and glitter and nothing of substance.

What seemed like an eternity before, Dorian had saved him from the cold, dragging him into shelter and warmth; but Cullen had saved him from something worse- he had saved him from loneliness and fear. He had saved him from _himself_.

What were they?

“We’re... good,” he said firmly. “We’re right. You’re handsome, and I’m _extraordinarily_ handsome, you’re stubborn as a mule but as brave as a lion, and you make me... proud. To love you and be loved by you. I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life, Cullen. I love you. Nothing has ever felt...”

Cullen was staring at him, almost near to shining from the earnest need in him and the towering, humbling love in his eyes, so honest and so eager that it frightened him. “I hurt you,” he blurted out, apparently unaware of the way he’d turned Dorian’s hand over to stroke his thumbs over the fluttering pulse in his wrists. “I hurt you and I- you’re right, I can’t forgive myself for that. I love you, Dorian, _so much_ that it frightens me sometimes and I...” He made a sound of distress. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered. 

The unspoken ‘ _not again_ ’ hung in the air between them.

What hurt was knowing that Cullen carried so much blame and guilt over what had happened between them. Cullen didn’t exist to soothe his every hurt and worry, and he had been focused only on his own pain, on his own insecurities and frustrations; they had hurt each other, and it was time to stop. It was time to heal what could be healed, and to let go of the rest as best they could.

“You won’t lose me, amatus,” Dorian promised. His carefully freed his hand from Cullen’s hold and grasped at the waist of Cullen’s breeches, pulling him nearer. “I promise you. You never will.” When Cullen was flush against him, Dorian leaned in close enough to tickle his lips with his breath. “I hurt you too, as I recall,” he murmured. “And what sort of man would I be if I left such pain untended to? I want to make it all better, my amatus- will you let me?”

Cullen didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he breathed, nodding; his nose brushed against Dorian’s. “Please, Dorian, yes.” 

Slowly, tantalizingly, Dorian’s fingers pushed under his breeches and took hold of Cullen’s cock. He was half-hard already, and with a few strokes of his hand his cock was thick and throbbing in his hand.

“Mm, we’ll definitely have to get you out of these clothes then,” Dorian said, kissing at Cullen’s chin. “Are you in need of assistance, Cullen?”

Cullen’s shiver of need was utterly delightful to behold. “I can do it,” he said, and Dorian stepped back with a gracious flourish, indicating for him to disrobe. He had not yet mastered the art of stripping as a means of seduction, and Dorian bit back a laugh at how inelegantly adorable he was in his haste, fumbling rapidly to push down his breeches and fling his shirt up over his shoulders at the same time. 

“I’ve half a mind to devour you like this,” Dorian said as Cullen stood naked before him, his cock jutting out from the bed of blond curls like a challenge. When he came nearer, Cullen’s breathing quite visibly sped up. “Get in the water,” he said instead, reaching between them and giving his cock one agonizingly slow tug.

Panting, his skin too hot and too tight, Cullen nodded eagerly and stumbled towards the edge of the closest pool, climbing awkwardly into the water and shivering as the warmth washed over him. There was no graceful way to clamber into a pool, he decided, and he just had to hope that Dorian wasn’t laughing at him for his gracelessness. 

The water lapped at his waist as he stood hesitantly in the centre of the pool, looking around for a shelf or place to sit. Dorian still stood up on the edge, fully clothed, and Cullen eyed him nervously. “Are you...?”

Dorian’s smirk made him moan softly. “I’m enjoying the view,” he said airily, “but, I suppose, if you insist...”

He reached up to his shoulder, where an ornate brooch pinned the colored sash over the top of his tunic, and-

Cullen felt all of the blood drain from his face and rush to his cock as the entire garment slithered down Dorian’s body at once, leaving him utterly naked and holding the brooch with a look of faux surprise on his face, the fabric now pooled around his feet. “Oh, Maker, how clumsy of me,” Dorian said, tossing the brooch aside a moment later, when he was apparently satisfied with Cullen’s reaction. He wandered around the edge of the pool to the wine, turning his back to Cullen before bending over quite slowly to reach for the bottle and the two goblets. 

Cullen fumbled behind himself for the edge of the pool, quite certain that if his head kept spinning like this he was going to swoon away in a dead faint. 

When he finally straightened again, both crystal goblets held delicately in his hands, Dorian showed Cullen the correct, graceful way to enter the water. His smirk would have been infuriating under other circumstances, as he slowly sauntered down the steps that he could now see under the water, previously covered by the flower petals.

Dorian glided towards him, the water pushed ahead of him in little waves that lapped at Cullen’s stomach. His skin shimmered in the candlelight, as if he’d already applied some sort of oil or cosmetic to make him shine like a god. “Wine?” he asked innocently, extending the goblet towards him as he came to a stop before him.

Cullen swallowed down the wave of lust in him that wanted nothing more than to bat the goblets out of his hands and crush him to him. “Thank you,” he said instead, hoping Dorian wouldn’t notice the way his hand shook as he reached for the drink.

They touched the goblets together in a semblance of a toast, the delicate crystal chiming softly; Dorian watched him intently as they drank, his eyes dark and hungry over the rim. The wine was some sort of white, sharp and fruity as it rolled against his tongue, and it sent another shiver through him as it splashed in his empty stomach.

_Maker._

“Doesn’t this feel nice?” Dorian asked, setting his unfinished goblet back on the edge of the pool and gliding towards him. Cullen hastened to do likewise, turning back around just in time for Dorian to settle in the water in front of him. “It’s so nice and relaxing, don’t you think? All the warm water, enough room to move around at your leisure...”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, shivering as Dorian’s fingers ghosted over his skin above the waterline, his head tipping back on a groan as Dorian slid up against him in the water, his body hot and slippery and intoxicating. He wrapped his hands around his waist and pulled him closer, the buoyancy of the water making it far too easy for Dorian’s feet to push off the floor of the pool and his thighs to come up tight around his hips; Cullen groaned as he buried his face in the curve of Dorian’s neck and breathed deeply, eagerly sliding his hands around to cup his ass and hold his weight against him, feeling Dorian’s quick intake of breath at the gesture. 

“If you keep this up I won’t be able to take care of you at all,” Dorian said, and for the first time his voice was shaking too. Their cocks rubbed together and they groaned in unison. “You’re making it very hard- pun _absolutely_ intended- for me to concentrate when you when you keep distracting me, amatus.”

Maker, he’d missed Dorian so much. He’d missed his hands and his kiss and the feel of his skin. He’d missed the sound of his heart beating and the way it always quickened when he moved closer. Dorian curled his nails against Cullen’s shoulder blades- just sharp enough to sting as they dug in, just fierce enough to leave marks for tomorrow-, resting his brow against his and kissing him as if Cullen were an oasis in a desert.

His head was spinning and he was breathing heavily, guilt holding him back from lunging for him and having his way with him, so he resisted the urge to let his fingers dip between the curve of his ass cheeks, instead kneading firmly at the taut muscles while Dorian rather pointedly rolled his hips teasingly against him. “I don’t-” He moaned again. “I don’t mean to,” he said, almost desperately. “Make everything worse, I mean. Dorian, I want...”

Dorian’s skin tingled and tightened. He lifted his head, breathing hot and fast against Cullen’s lips. “What?” Dorian asked, his eyes dark and wild with lust. His fingers moved beneath the waterline, taking hold of Cullen and tugging him so that he could press their cocks together one-handed. “You haven’t made anything worse. Tell me- what do you want, Cullen?”

He closed his eyes and groaned as Dorian’s hand rolled over them gently, a teasing tugging rhythm meant only to tempt him but not send him over the edge. His hips moved a little with the motion, as he panted.

“You, Dorian, always you,” he begged. “I don’t care what we- it can be anything. I just want _you_. To feel good and to- to be here with me.”

If he’d been in a teasing mood, Dorian might have drawn out his strokes, let Cullen chase his lips for a kiss, splash him a bit with the warm water and relished Cullen’s laughter as they fought like children and frolicked like nymphs; but Dorian, as much as he’d had magnificently grand plans when he’d set out this afternoon, was not really in the mood to tease anymore.

He kissed Cullen hungrily, one hand digging hard into the back of his neck for balance while the other rolled slowly over their cocks; he had to trust Cullen not to lose patience with him and drop him back into the water suddenly, and when his thighs tightened over his hips at the mere thought of it, Cullen groaned so delightedly that Dorian wasn’t even sure he’d mind if he did end up dropping him.

Apparently providence was with him, because as Cullen struggled to readjust his hold on him, he fumbled backwards a step, gasping in alarm when he sank down slightly in the water. Dorian knew they were where he wanted them to be, and he loosened his grip on him to get the leverage to push him down into the stone seat carved against the edge of the pool.

Cullen’s alarmed squawk was quickly soothed by a kiss as Dorian climbed onto his lap, knees settling either side of his hips on the ledge. “You want to feel good,” Dorian rasped. He rubbed his thumb over Cullen’s bottom lip, so amazingly in love with how he looked and the rush of his breath over his skin that he thought he might go mad from it. “I’ll make you feel good, amatus.”

He was like something out of a dream, his skin almost glowing in the light of the candles, the drops of water like scattered diamonds on the golden brown of his flesh. His hair was disheveled and falling in his eyes, and his smile was enough to leave Cullen dumbstruck, lips plump and swollen from their kisses and his eyes sparkling with lust and delight and happiness.

He was magnificent, with his flashing silver eyes and wicked smile, his hands dancing the line between gentle and demanding... and Cullen felt a burst of awe and love burn through him, disbelief warring with giddy bliss at the fact that _Dorian loved him_. His hands slid up Dorian’s thighs beneath the surface, dizzy at the contact and the closeness. “I love you,” he blurted out suddenly. 

“I love _you_ ,” Dorian countered immediately. His voice was rough, raw with emotion. When he kissed Cullen, it was softer, with less heat and hunger, but he could feel every fiber of his being, every inch of him, electrified for him. When he took Cullen’s hands, he pinned them against the stone, linking their fingers and grinding himself against Cullen’s lap. “I want you,” he breathed.

He kissed him deeply, slow and hungry and lingering, drinking him in until he was drunk on him. He whimpered when Dorian rubbed himself against him, their cocks brushing together, and Dorian took advantage of the moment to slide his tongue over his lip, teasing him and stoking the heat in him to burn hotter and higher. 

He felt deliciously vulnerable at the way Dorian held his wrists firmly against the edge of the pool, eager to let him take charge. “I want you too,” he said, voice shaking breathlessly when Dorian let him ease away from the kiss. “I- the door, it’s... it’s open. I want to make love to you.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, and to Cullen’s surprise he sat back and glanced over his shoulder, back towards-

\- back towards the _actual_ door.

Cullen opened his mouth to correct him but Dorian was already there, crushing his mouth to his. “Let them see,” he whispered fiercely. “Let them hear, let them come and watch if they want to.”

“Dorian-”

“Take me, then,” Dorian whispered against Cullen’s ear. “I want you inside of me, amatus, and I don’t care who knows.” 

“ _Dorian!_ ” Sweet _Maker_. The words sent a flood of wild heat through him and he groaned. “I meant- I meant the _metaphorical_ door.”

Dorian froze, and for a moment Cullen couldn’t say if the look on his face was one of utter mortification or complete frustration. Surprisingly, it appeared to be neither, when Dorian burst out laughing, groaning as he hid his face against Cullen’s shoulder.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Pavus,” he laughed at himself, scraping his teeth against Cullen’s neck. “I choose to blame how ridiculously handsome you are, Rutherford, and how distracting you are when you’re intent on being naked. I do, however, stand by my words.”

Cullen shuddered, pulling him back around and taking Dorian’s mouth harder, kissing him desperately. Their explicitly sexual encounters could be counted on one hand, and certainly never anything like this- Cullen had never found himself faced with such an agonizingly delicious opportunity as this, not even with the handful of bedmates he’d had in his life before Dorian. 

His cock throbbed between his legs, heavy and achingly hard as it bobbed in the water and responded eagerly to every hint of contact with Dorian. To be inside of him...

He bit Dorian’s lip gently, almost hesitantly, as he let one hand slide tentatively between them, squeezing gently at Dorian’s testes before slipping beneath them to his ass, his fingers running up and down the sensitive skin. Dorian moaned, the sound echoing against the stone and the warmth of Cullen’s mouth.“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cullen said, his voice shaking. “I... I’ll be gentle.”

The last thing he wanted was _gentle_.

Shivering, so hot that he was surprised his skin wasn't bubbling, Dorian growled against his throat where he licked and sucked and bit. “I want you to fuck me, amatus,” he rasped. “Fuck me and fill me and make me come screaming your name.”

Cullen groaned, and pressed a shaking finger into Dorian, gasping at the obscene noise that Dorian let out and the tight heat of him. He sunk in deep, first to one knuckle and then to the next, twisting and crooking his finger the way that Dorian did to him, and marveled at the way Dorian whined and squirmed on him, trying to press down harder against his hand. 

He licked his lips, panting heavily. “Do you want more?” he asked hoarsely.

_Maker yes_ , he wanted more. He wanted Cullen to sink into him, to fill him up and open him up and never leave him empty again. He could say nothing so bold, his voice shivering around the word, "Yes," and his skin shivering with how powerful and vulnerable it felt to say. He trembled, breathing hard and heavy, nodding against Cullen’s shoulder.

He needed no more encouragement than that, eagerly pressing a second finger into him, eased by the oils slicking the surface of the pool; he gasped as Dorian threw his head back on an almost wailing moan. It was exquisitely erotic, the way he moved and whimpered, the water sliding over his skin and leaving paths that Cullen wanted to trace with his tongue, his hair hanging askew across his hooded eyes as his mouth hung open almost obscenely while he panted and whined. 

He was a vision, wildly sexual and beautiful. 

What was the appropriate amount of preparation before, well- before making love? Dorian always seemed to take an inordinate amount of time on him, sliding fingers and tongue into him before slicking him with oils that made him shiver and squirm. Had Dorian brought oils with him, or was... would the water make things easier? Maker, that was probably something he was supposed to know already, as a sensible adult in a sexual relationship. 

“Dorian,” he rasped instead, hoping this would not leave him pegged as some inept clout, “are you...?”

_-ready?_

Dorian purred, his breath hitching frantically as he rode Cullen’s fingers. Everything in him wanted to replace Cullen’s hand with his cock and ride him like a bucking stallion until he was filled with him, but he wanted to make sure that Cullen was thoroughly teased before he gave himself any kind of release.

What kind of night together would it be if he gave himself instant gratification?

With a soft whine- only marginally frustrated, he was being good after all-, Dorian pushed away from him, kissing Cullen when he saw his look of worry. “Mmn, not just yet,” Dorian said teasingly, doing his best to hold onto the sliver of charm and wickedness that had not yet been sunk under the relentless bombardment of Cullen’s earnest enthusiasm and goodness. “You’ve kept your promise of being a _good boy_ , after all. And I want to keep my promise of being _good_ to you.”

The purred endearment of ' _good boy_ ' made him shiver violently, just as before, and Dorian stored that helpful little kernel of information away for another day. But the moment was gone as fast as it arrived, with Dorian all but manhandling him up onto the edge of the pool. Dorian pulled Cullen up and pressed him against the edge of the spring, reaching down to grip the back of his thighs and lift him slightly to sit him on the edge. _Maker’s breath_ , but he was heavy, and Dorian laughed against Cullen’s throat when he heard the rumble of teasing laughter.

“Mages don’t do much heavy lifting, huh?”

“Oh, pipe down,” Dorian said, smiling a little crookedly. “Books can be _very_ heavy.”

“I’m sure.”

He kissed Cullen before he could make any other smart remarks, tasting his little moans of excitement and pleasure when his hand gripped his cock and stroked over him slowly. He used his tongue to stroke his mouth to the same rhythm of his hand on his aching cock, and any other laughter he might have had building in his chest slithered away in the languid onslaught of pleasure.

Dorian loved the way Cullen looked when he was being pleasured- loved the dazed look in his hooded eyes, the sway his lips parted and shivered, the way his curls tightened with sweat, so carefully hidden from view most of the time that it was like his own little secret, his own private Cullen. He loved even more the little noises he made, the whimpers and groans and sighs that made his skin heat and tingle.

He kissed and bit from Cullen’s mouth to his belly, leaving a trail of little red marks on his pale skin, his own throbbing cock sliding beneath the water as he placed his mouth between Cullen’s thighs and pressed his teeth into the sensitive skin there. Cullen arched into each bite, as if silently begging him for each branding mark, and Dorian was only too happy to comply. Teasingly, he breathed over the head of his cock, flicking his eyes up Cullen’s body and grinning wickedly at the desperation in his gaze.

“I can’t imagine what you could want now, amatus.”

Cullen bit his lip and moaned- no, he didn’t moan, he _mewled_ , the sound so helpless and so needy that Dorian felt like he was drunk on it. “Please?” Cullen whispered hoarsely, hesitating for a moment before adding “You said I’d been good.”

And there it was again, an appeal towards praise. Dorian was going to have fun one day with _that..._

Dorian wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, flicking his tongue around his slit and licking up the pearly liquid that had gathered there already. He tasted _good_ , and Dorian groaned deep in his chest as Cullen’s head fell back on a desperate sob, sliding his mouth down a little lower.

He felt Cullen’s pulse in his mouth and he surged downwards, suckling hungrily at him. Had he ever been more ravenous, more starved for him, than he was in that moment? Dorian doubted he could ever have been; every little atom and cell in his body seemed to vibrate for him. His nails curled into Cullen’s thighs as he sucked him, eyes turned up to watch every exquisite expression on his face.

Cullen moaned desperately, the sound echoing obscenely in the cavern and making his blush deepen as his own wanton cries bounced back at them; it was impossible not to love him more for his wild abandon, not when Dorian was between his thighs and gazing up at him, soaking wet and hair slicked back, water running down his glorious chest while his beautiful mouth shuddered around sounds that made his own cock ache all the more.

His feet scrabbled for purchase on the slippery floor, one of them digging into Dorian’s back to drag him closer. He was so hot compared to the cool of the stone he sat on, and the shivery contrast between the cool of the open air and the heat of Cullen’s legs as they draped over his shoulders was exquisite. 

With each long teasing stroke of his tongue, the suction moving up and down with increasing speed, he gasped and groaned, the sound turning high pitched when Dorian urged him to lean back on his elbows to give him better access. A slick finger pressed into him quite sneakily, no preamble or teasing, and Dorian quickly set it to match the rhythm of his mouth as it glided in and out of him. 

Dorian licked his way down the underside of Cullen’s cock, nosing at him gently and taking his balls into his mouth and tugging softly. “I love you,” Dorian rasped, kissing and biting the inside of Cullen’s thigh again before returning to his cock and swallowing him to the back of his throat.

His breathing was coming faster now, his toes curling against Dorian’s back as his head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as he tried to focus on anything other than the tight, wet heat of Dorian’s mouth encompassing him, or the clever finger that fucked him in time to the swirling tongue.

“I love- I love you, Dorian,” he panted, his hips twitching up from the stone. “I can’t- ah, I won’t... _ahh, stop_ , Dorian, you need to stop, I _can’t_ -” He dug his fingers into his hair and tugged him away from him, whimpering when Dorian snuck in one last languid stroke with his tongue against the head of his cock. “I need to stop,” he stuttered, his voice shaking as he swallowed repeatedly, trying to push down the surge of heat in his belly. 

Dorian rubbed the insides of his thighs, leaving little kisses that burned against his skin. “Tell me what you need,” he said, his voice raw and hoarse from taking him so deep into his throat. “I want to make you feel good, amatus.”

Cullen laughed shakily, his face red. “You make me feel _too_ good,” he said, pulling Dorian up to kiss him hungrily, sliding off the ledge with a splash and pulling him into his arms.

He made a slight noise of resistance against his mouth, pushing away slightly. “Give me a moment,” he said breathlessly, wading quickly through the water to where the towels were piled. He rummaged through the linens for a moment before making a triumphant ‘ _aha!_ ’ and turning back to him with a dark jar in his hands. 

Cullen was ruthlessly pleased to see his hands shaking as he pulled off the lid and dug his fingers inside, pulling them out covered in thick, almost gooey paste. “Won’t disperse as easily in the water,” he explained. “Clever, yes?” 

His answer was to drag him closer, crushing his mouth to his even as he extracted the jar from his hands and dug his own hand into the goo. 

“ _Please_ ,” Dorian begged, all pretense of calm gone now. “ _Take me_ , amatus. I want you.”

Cullen fumbled behind himself for the ledge, nearly falling over in the pool in his haste and dragging Dorian with him; they were both laughing breathlessly between kisses as Cullen almost went sprawling onto the waist high stone bench, pulling Dorian astride his lap as he hurriedly sat down. He ran his free hand up and down his back, pulling him flush against him as he sought to touch him everywhere at once- his thighs particularly were marvelous to touch, sliding his fingers up over his hips and then down to the curve of his ass. 

“Yes?” he asked again, his hand slipping between them to press slicked fingers at Dorian’s hole.

His breath caught and his arms tightened around his neck. “Cullen,” he whimpered, grinding against him, desperate to feel him; closer and closer and _closer. “Fuck me_ ,” Dorian growled against his ear. “Do not... do not tease me, Cullen.”

“You never seem to have any problems with teasing me,” Cullen panted, dipping a finger into Dorian’s ass just once to hear the growl morph into a desperate whine. But he didn’t have the patience to keep it up, and he pulled his hand free a moment later, instead taking hold of his cock and lining it up against him as he rubbed the lube up and down his length.

“Look at me,” he said hoarsely, waiting until Dorian pressed his forehead to his, his eyes vaguely frantic, before shifting his hips and pulling Dorian down slowly to rub his cock along the inner spread of his ass cheeks.

The command turned him on so much he was a little dazed by it; sometimes he forgot that he was, after all, _Commander_ of the Inquisition. His words and his voice and his presence spurred an entire army, why should he not quiver for him when he turned that same sense of presence towards him? Dorian was only one man, madly and desperately in love with him, so why shouldn’t he tremble when Cullen spoke?

“Amatus,” he panted, his skin crawling deliciously with warm shivers, his belly hot and tight. He looped his arms a little tighter around Cullen’s neck, breathing rough against his mouth. “Mmn, yes,” he whispered, voice cracking when Cullen thrust against him tauntingly. “Take me, yes. I’m all yours.”

Cullen kissed him, slow and soft and drugging, sucking his top lip between his and running his tongue against his; it was far more control than he’d expected of himself, to be honest, having dreamed of this moment for so long. But he didn’t want to rush, or give in to impatience only to lose himself moments later and ruin everything. He wanted to wash away the pain of his thoughtless words, and the long, empty weeks apart; he wanted to make the moment last for an eternity, or at least forge memories that would last that long.

So he kissed him, kissed him until they were both breathless, until Dorian was quivering in his arms and Cullen was grateful for the buoyancy the water lent him and the fact that he was sitting down, because he was so light-headed that he knew he didn’t have the strength to stand. 

“Dorian,” he murmured, kissing his name to his lips, pulling back just far enough for Dorian to catch his breath; his beautiful grey eyes were dazed and lust fogged, and his dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. 

He was _extraordinary._

“Dorian,” he said again, and holding his cock steady, he pulled Dorian gently down over him, keeping his gaze locked with his as he slowly entered him. 

Dorian’s mouth fell open, a choked sob breaking from him a moment later; his fingers dug into his shoulders sharply, enough that Cullen grunted at the sensation. He tried to keep himself calm, to go slowly and gently in case Dorian was in pain, but he was so impatient and desperate that he wanted to be fully embedded in him, he wanted to be sated and satisfied and buried as deeply in him as possible.

He pulled him down, and he felt the moment that Dorian dropped his hips, the both of them shuddering when Cullen was as deep in him as he could get. A moment passed, and another, with no movement between them. Dorian’s mouth hung open, as if he was about to gasp, but he was simply frozen like that. 

Cullen stared at him with his amber eyes dark and his lips parted and his hair tight and perfect to lose his fingers in. It hit him hard just how much he loved him and needed him. And just how lost he’d been without him.

The first up and down made them both groan; it was good, but Dorian was so fucking impatient for more. He set the rhythm on his own terms, grinding his hips up and down against him; it didn’t take long for him to lose all sense of flow and instead let the passionate frenzy consume him. Dorian rode him with abandon, not caring what noise they made or if anyone might see or what kind of wicked or wild demon he might look like in Cullen’s eyes. His fingers knotted in Cullen’s hair as he bounced himself up and down on his cock, his body slowly tightening like a perfectly coiled spring.

Cullen moaned against his mouth, his hands flat against Dorian’s back as he pulled him flush against him. He was perfect, hot and tight as he rode him, his head spinning as the pleasure burned higher and hotter in him.

“Dorian,” he gasped, rolling his hips in time with his desperate jerking rhythm. He pulled away just enough to meet his gaze, one hand going up to cup his cheek. “ _Amatus_ ,” he said, watching Dorian’s eyes widen with shock at the endearment.

His accent was terrible. If he went to Qarinus and spoke like that they would have smiled at him with their sweet, pleasant mouths and laughed as soon as he was out of earshot. But of course, Dorian’s heart didn’t care what accent he used, or how he said the term of endearment; all it cared about was that he spoke it, that Cullen loved him, that he shaped his mouth around a foreign word just for him.

It was a word he’d convinced himself he’d never hear for himself, and his heart was fit to bursting hearing it from the one man that it mattered most from.

Dorian kissed him, almost tasting the word on his tongue, his lips tingling under his. “Maker,” he panted. He said Cullen’s name like it was a prayer, loud enough to echo, his voice breaking. His fingers gripped his curls, pulling hard enough to make Cullen groan again. “ _Please_ ,” he almost sobbed. “Cullen, _yes_.”

He kissed him, his hand sliding around to the back of his neck to cradle him there, and he kissed him like his very life depended on it; in a way, it did. He couldn’t think of life without Dorian, without his laughter and without his wit and without his touch. The water was sloshing and slapping against them, the sound almost pornographic, and their moans and whimpers echoed around the stone cavern, a chorus of sound that set fire to his blood. 

The heat was spiraling higher in him, his balls tightening as his end grew close, and he reached down between them to take hold of Dorian’s cock where it rubbed at his stomach, trying to match Dorian’s increasingly erratic rhythm as he rolled his hand up and down over the velvety firmness. “ _Amatus_ ,” he murmured again, the word still clumsy on his tongue. He tightened his grip, squeezing his cock just the way he knew he liked it. “Dorian, I want you to come for me.”

Dorian had never felt thrilled by a lover before Cullen. He’d never felt entranced and enthralled the way he did, staring into Cullen’s eyes and feeling his breath against his lips and his pulse inside of him. 

_Maker but he loved him._

There was an exquisite ache in him as his orgasm built, almost sharp under his skin and deep in his belly. He tried to say something, an affirmation or Cullen’s name- though he wasn’t sure, in that moment, if there was a difference between them- but all Dorian could do was whine and moan and ride Cullen faster before arched his back and spilled into the water.

He sobbed his name, shuddering and shivering and resting his forehead against Cullen’s.

Dorian’s release- the look of vulnerable, desperate joy in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened in his hair, the way his body clenched down hard and tight around him- was enough to push Cullen over the edge too, and his name had barely left Dorian’s lips before he felt himself lock up. His feet pressed hard into the smooth stone sides of the pool as his hips bucked upwards, and as Dorian rested his forehead against his Cullen lurched forward and kissed him, half sobbing against his mouth as he buried himself deep within him and came hard. 

“I love you,” he moaned, the words trailing off onto a whimper as the spasms of pleasure rippled through him.

Dorian nestled his face against Cullen’s throat, peppering his slick skin with tiny, open mouthed kisses.

He was full of him, in every way imaginable, and he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to have even an inch between them. He said as much, a quiet mumble against Cullen’s flushed skin, and Cullen laughed and hugged him a little tighter.

“Te amo,” Dorian whispered, and if Cullen didn’t know what the words meant, he understood when Dorian lifted his head and met his eyes, when he kissed his lips and cupped his face in his hands. “Te amo,” Dorian repeated, his grey eyes soft and sweet, like a sky after a storm.

Or before, Cullen thought with a warm shiver.

“I love you too,” Cullen said, and when Dorian kissed him, he sighed his name like a prayer across his tongue.

______

_My dearest Mae,_

_I have many friends here, I am happy to say. Now now, I can hear your suspicions from here, and I’ll have you know that not a one of them is bound to my side out of any sort of financial obligation. I have found their companionship to be a most peculiar thing, as you are most likely not surprised to hear; I was, tragically, never a very popular boy, and I daresay I still remain on the fringes of everyone’s notice- but I have friends, and they do care for me, as I care for them._

Dorian paused in his writing, thinking of how Varric had reached out to him when it would have been simpler to leave him to his loneliness and stubbornness. He thought of Nama, who sometimes brought him tea and snacks when he was working into the wee hours of the morning. Solas, who shared passionate debate with him and discussed magical theory until the sun brightened the sky and he sheepishly returned to his books and his paint and his cobwebs and walks in the Fade. Vivienne who teased him, who seemed to have a tongue as sharp as daggers, but whose eyes were soft, and who asked after him when he was struggling.

Cole, who saw more than he said, and who said more than he should. But who looked into him and saw something good and something noble; who told him to keep trying.

He had made friends, as varied and diverse and strange as they were, and he loved them.

_There is one in particular I have come to enjoy spending my time with. I am sorry to say that I have become rather fond of the man. He is Fereldan- and I can feel your disapproval all the way from Qarinus, Mae, hush now- and Commander of the Inquisition’s forces too. I never did believe in setting my ambitions low, after all. But he is a good man, Mae, and I-_

Again, Dorian stopped writing.

He thought of Cullen, cold, shivering, lips discolored, face red from chill and wind. He had needed warmth, and something more. Something that neither of them had expected, but both had secretly craved; affection, intimacy. Cullen had removed his armor and trusted Dorian with all of the fragile, vulnerable, broken pieces of himself.

He thought of Cullen, pulling him close, dancing with him in the dark, whispering his sweet words against his ear to make him laugh.

Nightmares and darkness and shadow had come between them, but nothing had proved enough to tear them apart. The abyss had swallowed him, and Cullen had been waiting on the other side.

_-love him. His name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and I love him._

“And I love him,” Dorian said aloud, with a smile.


End file.
